


A World Alone

by tollofthebells



Series: Ellinor Trevelyan [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Caretaking, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Family Drama, Hurt/Comfort, Lyrium Withdrawal, Mages and Templars, Mutual Pining, Opposites Attract, Pining, Sibling Rivalry, Slow Burn, Trevelyan issues, Uneasy Allies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-22
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2019-08-05 15:31:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 35
Words: 115,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16370282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tollofthebells/pseuds/tollofthebells
Summary: “What is it that you do not like about him?” Josephine asks suddenly, and Ellinor looks at her, open-mouthed. Scandalized.“What is it—thatIdon’t like?” she sputters. “It’s Cullen who doesn’t like me! He—he chastises me. He underestimates me. He’s always in a bad mood and—and he just…” She takes a deep breath. Stop it, she thinks; she’s let her emotions get the best of her. A rare loss of control. She smooths her jacket instinctively. “He looks at me and he sees a highborn girl with nothing to offer the Inquisition but a mark on my hand. He judges me entirely by who I was. Not by who I’m trying to be.”





	1. Prologue

_Sit up straight._ Voices float into the Ellinor’s cell, filtering in one at a time and then all together in an incoherent rush, unfamiliar, as though spoken from a faraway place, echoing off the damp stone walls and filling the darkness where she sits. They mingle with the soft ringing in her ears, one of many reminders she carries from the explosion.

 _Shoulders back._ They took two of her daggers upon finding her, disheveled and choking back ash, outside the smoldering remains of the temple. _But they missed the third_ , she thinks gratefully, _Avery’s knife_ ; it’s still there, sheathed and strapped to her thigh beneath the mostly intact remains of her dress. It’s only an ornamental dirk, smaller, thinner than her preferred blades, never meant to be used, but it’s enough. If she should need it, it’s enough.

 _Ankles uncrossed._ There are eyes on her. It’s dark where she sits; only the faint glow of a torch from far down the block offers any amount of light and yet she knows she’s far from alone. _They are watching._

The voices grow nearer and nearer and the only one she listens to is the one that’s not there, her mother’s, _sit up straight_ , _shoulders back_ , _ankles uncrossed_. Her body aches, her heart pounds, her head’s still spinning, and her hand—but she sits patiently. She sits like a lady. _There’s no time to panic when they are watching_.

When the cell doors open, she is ready.

“Lady Trevelyan.”

She looks up slowly, unfolding her hands from her lap, slow, steady, _don’t alarm them_. There are five people before her, she counts them one by one, _five_ , as though she isn’t completely— _nearly_ completely—unarmed, as if she has anything more than the mere silks draped over her body to protect her from any amount of force the group could undoubtedly bring upon her.

“Yes?” She speaks calmly, softly, _good_ , she thinks, they can’t hear the shaking she feels inside, can’t see the fear that seeps through her body.

Four of them appear to be soldiers; she recognizes the insignia on their uniforms as the same as the men guarding the temple. The fifth is a woman, a towering figure—or maybe she only seemed so; she holds herself high, _then I will hold myself higher_ —and she bears a shield emblazoned with the all-seeing eye of the Chantry, _excellent, the Andrastians have found me once more_.

“I suppose you know why you are here?”

 _A Nevarran_. She can hardly see the woman’s face in the darkness of the prison, the torch she’d placed outside the door casting shadows all over the cell. But she knows by the accent. _An_ Andrastian _Nevarran_. She takes a deep breath, deep but silent, _she is watching you_.

“I should assume you believe I’m responsible for the destruction of the temple.” It’s not a question; she states so plainly, calm, controlled, demure. _It could be true_ , she thinks, certainly from the outside looking in. She hardly remembers the explosion. Only that she’d come to Haven days before, clad in her Trevelyan finery, her Marcher-style gown in a deep gray with silver threads. She remembers that she played her part. She remembers that she arrived at the temple in the company of hundreds of others, nobility and chantry leaders and magisters and templars and former first enchanters alike. She remembers that she emerged alone.

“Yes,” the woman replies solemnly, coldly.

_But oh, there’s more._

“That is one among your charges.”

_Charges. Plural._

The woman clears her throat and steps forward into the cell. The poor lighting still does little to reveal her face, her features; all Ellinor can see is her silhouette—imposing, muscular, short hair and broad shoulders. “Additionally,” she continues tersely, “you are charged with the murder of two templars upon your arrival in Highever port.”

 _There were no witnesses_ , Ellinor thinks, her heart pounding. _I made sure of that_. “That wasn’t—”

“Three crossing the Bannorn,” the woman continues. “One on the shores of Lake Calenhad. Another just outside Redcliffe.”

 _There’s no arguing out of this,_ Ellinor realizes, _she knows, they_ know _._

“Have you no defense?”

“Bring the light in,” Ellinor says quietly, evading her question.

“I beg your pardon?"

“Bring the light inside this cell.”

The woman stands, silent; Ellinor doesn’t need to see her eyes to feel them boring into her. But she relents, nodding to a soldier behind her, a silent order; in seconds the torch is passed from one man to the second to the third and then to the woman and at last everything is laid out before Ellinor, all of her features and her face all at once.

She’s younger than Ellinor had guessed from her voice alone, her complexion scarred in some places, dirtied, unwashed but unmistakably olive—she is a true Nevarran, complete with hair as black as a raven feathers, cut short, braided in parts. And _oh, Maker, is she furious,_ her eyes fiery with impatience, with anger. With fear.

Ellinor has played long enough, _I will play no more._

“Those templars,” she says, the honey in her words abandoned in favor of ice, of venom. She stands from her stool, silks shifting around her ankles, chains clanking around her shackled wrists as she rises to meet the woman before her eye to eye. _She holds herself high, but I will hold myself higher._ “Those templars deserved it.”

“You are a mage, then?” the woman growls, eyeing her as an eagle eyes its prey.

_You may watch me but you will not prey on me._

“I believe it was knives your men ripped from my hands upon my capture,” Ellinor bites. “Not a staff.”

The woman scowls; she’s caught her now, she knows, but she can see suspicion still dripping from her face, distrust still burning in her eyes. “Explain this, then,” she demands, grabbing Ellinor by her hand. The clang of her shackles is drowned out immediately by a crackling spark, a sharp staticky pain _piercing_ through her entire arm, and she _screams_.

Startled, the woman releases her hand, steps back, grasps the hilt of her still-sheathed sword.

“I don’t _know_ what this is,” hisses Ellinor, gripping her wrist. The pain has subsided, for now, but the sensation, nearly _electrical_ , remains. “And I’m guessing you don’t either.”

She doesn’t reply at first, the scowl from before still well in place. “We think,” she begins finally, “that it might be useful against...the Breach.”

The Breach. The gaping cloud, the sickening green streaked across the once-blue skies of Haven. _That’s what they were calling it, then._ Ellinor had seen it when they’d pulled her, handcuffed and in chains, from the wreckage of the temple all the way to dungeons of the town.

“I had nothing to do with the destruction of the temple,” she says finally, diplomatically, _oh, how Mother would be proud_. “But if this... _thing_...on my hand can somehow remedy whatever has been created in the aftermath...then I would like to help you.”

She holds her hands out expectantly, baring the chains upon her wrists for the woman, but she makes no move to release her. “You are still responsible for the murders of seven templars,” she reminds her, and Ellinor’s blood boils once more.

“I don’t suppose you counted the templars I _didn’t_ kill?” she snarls. She’s raised her voice now, a mistake. _Too far_ , she thinks, the woman has seen her anger, her fire. She takes a deep breath, a calm breath, and looks her in the eye. “I did what I had to _when_ I had to,” she says quietly. “It doesn’t take a mage to have compassion for one. I will help you, but you need to trust me.”

They stare at one another again. The sternness remains in the woman’s eyes, but the fire is gone.

“Very well,” she says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW this has been a long time coming...


	2. Solitude and Silence

_Avery,_

_I arrived in Haven today—Ferelden! I come only on the pretense that am I to attend the Conclave gathering here on the outskirts of town—which I may actually attend. It’s the only way Mother and Father would let me leave the bloody Marches in the first place._

_Ferelden is a bitter and wild country. It’s cold. I’m not quite sure I like it, but it’s not home, so it’s not the_ worst _place I could be. We said once we would come here together, away from Ostwick, away from the Circles._

_I’m here now. I only hope you are as well._

_All of my love,_

_Ell_

* * *

 

When the rift is closed, Ellinor is taken back to Haven proper not as a threat but as a hero, led not by the the shackles on her wrists but on her own as a free woman. They’re no longer a company of two, either; she’d left with the Nevarran— _Cassandra_ , she’s called, _a Seeker_ —but they return with three others: one, a _spymaster_ , quiet, cold, elusive and yet warm toward the Seeker. Friendly. They speak only in whispers, in hurried and hushed tones, but they speak like sisters. The other two are unassuming—Varric, a dwarf, who claims friendship with both Cassandra and the Champion of Kirkwall herself— _unlikely_ , she thinks, _a liar_ , especially when the Seeker so vehemently rejects his amicable advances—and an elven mage; her heart freezes when Cassandra introduces him, _Solas, an apostate_ , brands him like her family had branded Avery when the Circles broke, _apostate, apostate_.

But there is little time for words when the rift is closed. When they return, Varric and Solas take their leave, go their separate ways. Haven’s citizens are still scattered, some hidden in their homes, some outside in awe of the great green breach in the sky but none take much notice of them on their arrival, _they are afraid_ , she thinks, _and yet they’ve seen so little._ They weave through the locals dotting the snowy grounds like runners in a maze, Cassandra leading the way, Leliana just half a step behind, Ellinor a shadow in their wake. Their destination, she’s quick to learn, is a small cabin just inside the walls of the town. Cassandra ushers them inside hurriedly and when the door shuts behind them, it shuts out the cold, the light, the buzz of wonder amongst the townspeople as they slowly piece together what had transpired and _here I am again_ , she thinks, and though she’s surrounded by several others, _here I am, alone_.

“Oh, thank the Maker.”

 _It’s dark_ , she can hardly see, but no sooner is she inside the little room than a pair of delicate hands pulls her close to the fireplace and immediately begins to inspect her. The warm glow of the flames reveal a small woman, _Antivan_ , Ellinor knows instantly; she tugs at her arms and frets over her dirty dress, her cuts and bruises, her _hands_ , flinching only once—it’s hardly noticeable but Ellinor _sees_ —when the mark crackles green before her.

“You’re all right,” the woman deems when her inspection is finished. If Ellinor didn’t know better, she might think the relief in her voice is genuine. “We were so worried.”

 _We._ She glances around the room to find the second of those who’d gotten there before them, a tall man sitting in the corner of the little cabin, red-faced from the cold, _he couldn’t have arrived much sooner than we did_ , light in features and dark in expression. _Ah, yes,_ she thinks, unease tugging at her heart, _he looks_ very _worried_.

Cassandra clears her throat. “Lady Trevelyan,” she announces, peeling her gloves off to warm her hands by the fire, formality replacing the battle-ready tone she’d spoken with at the remains of the temple. “Ambassador Josephine Montilyet of Antiva.”

The ambassador offers a deep curtsy and an outstretched hand, _oh, but her curtsy could rival Lyssa’s or Reilly’s_. Ellinor takes her hand nonetheless, curtsies in turn though her own attire is nothing against the golden skirts Josephine wears; _you have nothing if not your first impressions_ , her mother’s voice rings in her head. “A pleasure,” she murmurs, as if meeting her at a party or a ball and not in the aftermath of the Conclave explosion, as if exchanging pleasantries beneath lace-fingered gloves and rosy blushes and not in spite of her bloodied traveling dress, her dirt-covered fingers.

The man in the corner gives a quiet cough, the kind that without any doubt was never meant to clear his throat, and Ellinor turns sharply. The ambassador received her most practiced etiquette, _and he asks for my worst._

“And Commander Cullen Rutherford,” Cassandra introduces him, and he rises to greet her, offering a curt bow, _nothing more_ , his brown eyes never leaving hers. She makes no move to curtsy this time, only nods her head and takes in the sight of him. Tall. She’d been right about that at first glance; he stands tall before the rest of them save maybe for the Seeker, who herself might near his height with the way she presents herself, her confidence, her spirit. He’s fully armored, _Commander_ , Cassandra had called him, a title for war heroes and seasoned veterans and yet the fur mantle he wears over his pauldrons is an article too decorative, too imposing, a garment for a man with much to prove and more to live up to.

“Commander,” she murmurs, an acknowledgment, _nothing more._

Josephine smooths her silken skirts, clasps her hands together. “The Breach—”

“The Breach remains,” Cassandra clarifies, _all business_ , “but the rift is closed for now.” The ambassador breathes a sigh of relief, and for the first time since leaving her prison cell, Ellinor allows herself to do the same. With some afterthought, Cassandra offers a polite nod. “We could not have done this without Lady Trevelyan,” she says.

But Cullen— _unsurprisingly_ , thinks Ellinor—is unimpressed. “How?” he asks, ignoring her completely as the question is directed entirely toward Cassandra and Leliana. He shakes his head in thought. “Are you saying that you brought her, _unarmed_ —”

Cassandra holds her hand up at him. “She closed it with the mark on her _hand,_ Cul—”

“I wasn’t _unarmed_ ,” interrupts Ellinor, cold and collected, _despite your efforts to render me as helpless as I may appear_ , and she presents her dagger, _Avery’s dagger_ , to him; it’s a shell of its former elegance now, its bright silver gleam dulled by the streaks of demons’ gore and blood—the same blood that stains her fingers and paints brown on the skirts of her dress—but it’s served her well nonetheless.

“A ceremonial dagger,” he mutters. He grabs the knife from her hands, and their fingers brush—calloused, dry against delicate and smooth. “Never used, I imagine,” he scoffs, twirling the blood-stained blade in his hand, scowling further at the jeweled hilt the way he’s already scowled at her tattered dress, her pinned-up hair, her battered and ruined shoes.

 _He’s judging you_ , she thinks. _He hates you already_. “No, I’ve never used _this_ one before,” she bites, yanking it back from him. _I never should have had to_. She sheathes it again without incident; her dress is torn to her knee now anyway, and it’s hardly an issue to pull the skirts back and slip the knife where it belongs. “The ones you _confiscated_ , on the other hand—”

“—were used to murder several templars,” he interrupts, narrowing his eyes at her. “Cassandra has told us enough. You may have closed that rift but you are still a wanted—”

“Cullen.” The Seeker is calm when she speaks, another woman entirely from the Cassandra Ellinor had met in the dungeons, from the one she’d fought alongside at the burnt aftermath of the Conclave and at that alone, the quiet _Cullen_ , the commander silences.

“Lady Trevelyan,” Leliana continues, picking up from where the Seeker had left off, “was able to seal the rift using the mark on her hand. Solas—”

“—the elven apostate,” Cassandra clarifies, and there’s the word again, _apostate_ , and her heart aches for Avery.

 _I should be looking for him_.

“Yes,” Leliana nods, “Solas believes the mark might be useful in closing the Breach. I’m quite certain she is our best hope.”

Cullen shakes his head again; _what can he possibly think now?_ “If we seek _her_ help in solving all of this,” he begins, and she’s growing quite tired of them all talking as though she isn’t here, in the same room, before them. “If we look to her for guidance, she will become some sort of symbol. The people will think her a hero, a—”

“They already do,” the spymaster says calmly. “‘The Herald of Andraste,’ some are calling her. The word _will_ spread. The people _will_ know of what she’s done. Of what she’s seen. They will look to her for guidance, and so should we.”

“Guidance?” Ellinor repeats, speaking up at last, reigning the anger in her voice under control. “Just hours ago, you demanded to know my purpose at the Conclave, in Haven! And now you seem to forget I had any other reason to be here than to serve as your—”

“Herald,” Leliana says simply, though whether she means to answer her or to address her, Ellinor is unsure. “I find it hard to believe you might arrive in Ferelden, leave seven dead templars scattered on the roads between Highever and Haven, and suddenly be in a rush to leave just when the chantry-sanctioned meeting you sought to attend is destroyed in a demonic explosion.”

“I have to go—”

“—back?” Leliana asks. “You? The youngest daughter of Bann Jaime Trevelyan, twice engaged and still unmarried at twenty-six?” Her words cut like ice and Ellinor can only stare back into her bright blue eyes, willing the anger bubbling within her to still for just a moment longer, steeling her expression over tenfold. “I’m not sure what pressing matters you could have to attend to in Ostwick, but let me assure you, Lady Trevelyan, they cannot possibly be more pressing than this.”

 _Ostwick_ , she thinks, and she might laugh wryly were she not so focused on remaining stone-faced, quiet. _For someone with so much information, you know so little, spymaster_.

“If she doesn’t _want_ to stay,” says Cullen through gritted teeth, “then I don’t see why we can’t just let her—”

“Enough of this!” Cassandra barks. “Cullen! Lady Trevelyan is our best hope for sealing the Breach, and if you cannot acknowledge this, you are being foolish. Lady Trevelyan, you may have other motives for your presence here in Haven, and I am quite sure Leliana’s sources will find them sooner rather than later, but right now, surely you must see that we need your help. And Leliana.” She quiets her voice now, finally. “Surely there is a better way to turn Lady Trevelyan to our cause than by using her personal information against her?”

They’ve arrived at a standstill, Ellinor knows; Leliana says nothing, only looks back at Cassandra with quiet resolve, and Cullen purses his lips, the dark circles around his eyes doing little to detract from the fire in his stare.

“All right,” Ellinor concedes, her white flag raised, _I know a lost battle when I see one_. “I clearly have little choice in the matter. But—”

She stops when Josephine rests her hand on her arm, _a kind hand_ , she thinks. The ambassador has remained silent through most of the ordeal, and the touch of her fingers on the mostly torn sleeves of her dress is soft, gentle. “It is a matter for another time,” she says firmly, _kindly_. “Lady Trevelyan, the people _will_ look to you for help. You must meet with them. They will know of your return by now, and they will expect you.”

“Looking like _that_?” Cullen asks incredulously.

It’s the first time he’s spoken since Cassandra reprimanded him, and his remark comes as a surprise to everyone present, himself included.

“ _Excuse_ me?” Ellinor hisses. She’s fought long and hard to suppress her anger, but _oh, he is testing me._

“Commander, would you care to elaborate?” Josephine’s voice is calm, refined, and Ellinor clenches her fists at the ambassador’s delicate and diplomatic tone, her nails digging into the palms of her hands.

“How _dare_ —”

“Lady Trevelyan, please—” Josephine tries, but Ellinor cuts her off

“Will you ever open your mouth for any reason other than to _berate_ me?”

“Lady Trevelyan,” Cullen sighs, crossing his arms, and she can nearly _feel_ the restraint it’s taking him to hold back an eye roll. “You are a Marcher and a noble. These are Fereldans. Small-town folk. They’ve been through so much since the Blight—since _before_ the Blight. You can’t possibly try to lead them looking like that, with your—your silk skirts and your ribbons and you hair all twisted around your head like a halo.”

She raises a hand to her hair out of instinct; miraculously, the braid she’d done the morning before—before the Conclave explosion, before the rift, before Divine Justinia damned her to helping close the bloody _Breach_ above them—remained mostly intact. Undone in places, crusted with dried blood and dirt, stray strands and ribbon falling out like wild straw from a birds nest—but mostly intact.

“I see no issue. The Hero of Ferelden herself wears her hair similarly,” Leliana remarks, and for once, Ellinor is glad for her input. “I’ve seen her braid it like that countless times.”

“With all due respect,” continues Cullen tersely, “the Hero of Ferelden is also _queen_. She can wear her hair however she likes.”

The spymaster wrinkles her nose. “She wore it like that before she was queen, too, although I suppose you wouldn’t _remember_ from the one time you met her.”

Cullen’s expression twists in anger, his hands balling into fists at his side. He opens his mouth in argument but in an instant, Cassandra is there, pulling his arm back, standing close next to him.

“That was uncalled for, Leliana,” she says coldly.

Ellinor isn’t sure exactly what’s transpired, but she can feel the tension among the five of them like a suit of iron on her shoulders. She wishes for a moment that they were merely arguing over her hair again.

It’s Josephine who breaks the silence at last, her gentle voice filling the room as though the conversation hadn’t missed a beat. “Commander Cullen is correct—the Hero comes from Highever. A port city—one well under the cosmopolitan influences of its trade partners. The crown braid is Tevinter in origin, and a popular style among the Marches, but...perhaps a more quaint style would do.” Ellinor looks to Cullen, but his face lacks the smug expression she’d expected—in fact, it’s void of any expression at all. “Commander,” prompts Josephine, and his eyes snap back up to the ambassador. “You are from these parts—you would know better than any of us how best to present her to the people of Haven. Your advice would be most welcome.”

Ellinor hardly believes that the man before her could know the first thing about women’s hairstyles, but it’s not worth adding to the mountains of tension they’ve already suffered.

“Yes, well,” he begins. “None of this.” He gestures vaguely at Ellinor’s head. “None of this. A single braid will do. Loose. Maybe to the side.”

Ellinor frowns, but Josephine smiles kindly next to her. “Excellent, Commander, we—”

“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” he cuts her off, pushing past Ellinor and Josephine both without a second glance. “I’ve important things to return to.”

Josephine’s smile falters, the ghost of a frown flickering over her lips, but when Cullen is gone—Cassandra at his heels—she presses forward. “No matter,” she says kindly, pulling at Ellinor’s hand. “We should get you out of these clothes. You must be freezing, and—” she clicks her tongue at the bloodstains embedded along the cloth of her dress, “—a pity. It must have been lovely once.”

She hasn’t had the time to notice the cold, truly, but when Josephine brings it up, her skin crawls with goosebumps beneath the torn and tattered dress. “It was,” she says quietly, “once.”

She follows Josephine into a small room off the main part of the cabin, taking care not to pull too hard at the ribbon in her braid as she works her fingers through her hair, undoing each twist carefully while the ambassador fishes through a trunk of clothing. “I am afraid we do not have any dresses _like_ it,” she says, voice muffled by the mass of fabrics and leathers she’s facing, “but...Commander Cullen is probably right. It would do well to wear—”

“Whatever you have is fine,” Ellinor says, and the instant the words leave her mouth she knows she’s been too cold, snapped too quickly. But Josephine doesn’t flinch. “I’m sorry,” Ellinor adds quickly when she rises again, a small pile of clothes under her arm. “I...um. Thank you. For being so kind to me, even when you know nothing about me. Or at least, you seem to know only the bad things. So far.”

Josephine nods, first slowly, then with a smile. “Everyone has a story,” she says simply, abandoning her smile for only a moment to give her wildly unbraided hair a quick frown. She drops the clothes immediately and pulls Ellinor into a chair, deft fingers making quick work of her tresses. “Whatever we know of you is most certainly very, very little,” she explains, twisting her hair loosely to the side. “It should be up to you to tell us, in time. When you are ready.” In mere seconds, she’s finished, stepping back from Ellinor to admire her work.

“Well...thank you,” Ellinor says again, grateful. _At least one person here will not press me_.

“It is nothing,” Josephine replies kindly, picking up the change of clothes and pressing them into her arms. “Now here, put these on. We will meet you outside when you are ready.”

When Josephine has at last disappeared—Ellinor knows by the _click_ of the cabin door opening and shutting, the chill of the Frostback wind rushing in even as far as the little room she stands in—she peels off her dress, or what remains of it, kicks off the ruined traveling boots she’s worn ever since leaving the Trevelyan estate in Ostwick, and dresses in the clothing the ambassador had given to her. A pair of trousers, _practical_ , she thinks, a cotton tunic and a dark leather jacket—far warmer than the attire she’d brought with her, and it all fit her well, even the supple leather riding boots Josephine had chosen. _Bless her—a true eye for clothing and hair alike_.

She’s nearly ready to emerge when she hears the cabin door open again, a pair of heavy boots crossing the wooden floor, bringing the cold in with them.

“Cullen,” Leliana says; _she’s still here_. Her voice has changed; gone is the sly coolness she’d worn with Ellinor, she’s softened now, _she speaks as a friend._ “I’m glad you came back, I’m so sorry for—”

“It’s forgotten,” the Commander says dismissively, and Ellinor stands motionless in the back room.

“No. It was...unacceptable. It was unkind of me, thoughtless, to speak of Kinloch when—”

“Leliana,” he says, quietly now. “It’s forgotten.”

Neither of them speak again, and after a few silent moments, Ellinor hears the shuffling of papers, the footsteps of not one but two leaving the cabin, and at last, once more, she is alone.


	3. Near Misses

The Haven Chantry is the first she’s visited in Ferelden. If she had it her way, she’d never have set foot in a Chantry again, but it’s the biggest space afforded to them in the small town, the best spot for them to meet and to plan and anyway, the four of them—Cassandra, Leliana, Josephine, and Cullen—had been working out of the back room behind the main hall long before she’d even become a pawn in their Inquisition. _Ironic,_ she thinks as she walks the long hall alone, borrowed boots tapping slowly, carefully along the floor, _that we should run our fight for freedom and justice from within the walls of a religious prison._ The old building is darker, dustier than the Chantries she’s attended in the Free Marches. The inside smells of aged wood, incense, dust, earth, nothing like the airy Ostwick Chantry with its stained glass windows opening to a fresh sea breeze, salt air against the fresh parchment of the Chantry hymn books. She doesn’t miss it. But somehow, the unfamiliarity of the Haven Chantry reigns champion over her soured memories of the one in Ostwick, and the frown on her face is evident as she continues forward to the war room.

“Not a fan of the Chantry, then?”

She looks up to find the dwarf, Varric, approaching her from the far end of the hall, no doubt returning from a meeting with Cassandra— _her interrogations never end_ , he’d told Ellinor after their return from closing the rift at the old temple.

Ellinor forces back a laugh. “A fan?” she repeats, shaking her head, her tone amused but her words like daggers. “Hardly. The organized Chantry and its Order of puppets have brought me nothing but pain since I was a girl. I’m tempted to say I’d sooner see it burn to the ground.”

Varric offers little more than a half smile in return. “Be careful what you wish for,” he says, walking past her, making his way out to the great doors. “I had a friend who did just that once. Wasn’t pretty.”

 _Kirkwall_ , she thinks; she’s long since realized her initial assumption that Varric lied about knowing the Champion was far from reality, but she doesn’t have time to dwell on the thought of the infamous Chantry explosion, as Cullen storms past her and toward the war room.

 _He heard me_. She’s yet to see him in any mood _unlike_ this—impatient, angry, cold—but the way he neglects to even _acknowledge_ her tells her her words, though meant for Varric’s ears only, were far from private.

“Fine,” she murmurs to herself. She smooths her jacket, tucks any stray strands of hair back into the neat braid Josephine had done for her that morning, and pushes her shoulders back. _That’s fine_.

They’re all in the war room waiting for her when she arrives. Josephine scribbles away at her clipboard of paper; Leliana stands alone, arms crossed, lips sealed but eyes wide open, and Cassandra and Cullen sit opposite her, speaking in hushed murmurs. Cassandra speaks rapidly, urgently; Cullen’s whispers are slow and reserved. Ellinor clears her throat.

“Lady Trevelyan!” Josephine is the only one to greet her with a smile—the only one to greet her at all, really, as Cassandra rises with only a murmured _Herald_ , Leliana offers little more than a curt nod, and Cullen says nothing at all.

 _He heard me_ , she thinks again, and yet _I meant what I said._

 _Let it burn_.

“Good morning,” she replies. It’s far earlier than she’d prefer but everything in Haven is so _cold_ —her cabin hardly retains any warmth from the little fire in the kitchen, her blankets barely hold in her own body heat, even her coffee is cold from the time she pours it black into her cup to the moments later when she goes to take a sip—and besides, the looming Breach, the swirling green clouds in the sky visible through her window no matter the time of day are more than enough to ensure she doesn’t sleep as well or as long as she once had moons ago in Ostwick. “Allies,” she says, pouring over the map— _straight to business_ —“who do we have? Who _can_ we have?”

Surprisingly, it’s Cullen who speaks up first. He rises from his chair with purpose, with a confidence that leaves a sour taste on Ellinor’s tongue before he even opens his mouth to speak but _so be it_ , she thinks, _let him try_.

“Cassandra and I were discussing the renegade templars to the southwest,” he says, pouring over the massive map and dropping a weighted finger on Val Royeaux.  _Templars_ , he says, of  _course_ ; she's heard the whispers, not that it's a secret—Cullen Rutherford, first of Ferelden's Circle, then of Kirkwall,  _former Knight Commander_. A templar himself.  _One of them_. “They would be an invaluable resource to the Inquisition," he continues. "Properly trained, ready for combat. They…”

Ellinor stands still. Stands tall. _Let him speak_ , she thinks, _let him babble_ ; she’s ever the lady waiting patiently for him to finish, hearing his words but hardly granting him the favor of listening. It’s only when Leliana interjects that she raises her demurely downcast stare from where Cullen’s fingers had brushed across the western coast of the Waking Sea.

“Lady Trevelyan,” the spymaster appeals, drawing a gloved finger over southern Ferelden, crossing the map like a knife, straight and sharp. “I understand that you’ve heard of the number of mages who’ve gathered in the arling of Redcliffe. They—”

“Apostates,” Cullen mutters, but the word doesn’t deter her; she _has_ heard of the influx in Ferelden yet hearing it again pulls at her heartstrings. She has no time for his disdain; she may be be a part of the Inquisition now but she has nothing if not her purpose for being here, the reason she crossed the Waking Sea once and _I would do it again, all again_ if it meant she could find Avery. But she might not have to do it again. Apostates in Redcliffe.

 _Redcliffe is so close_.

“These _mages_ ,” Leliana continues pointedly, saying only what she already knows, what they all know, “are without direction. They run wild in the Hinterlands, clashing with the renegade templars roaming the area and wreaking havoc on the arling, but with a guiding hand—”

“An iron fist, maybe” mutters Cullen and _oh, what I might do with an iron first if he doesn’t stop talking_.

Where Cullen’s commentary burns red into Ellinor, Leliana continues unperturbed. “With a guiding hand and a purpose,” she says plainly, “they could prove excellent allies.”

Finished, she looks up to meet Ellinor’s gaze, clear blue eyes unchallenging; _how different she is from Cullen_ , Ellinor thinks, from the amber gold fiery gaze that could burn a hole into the war table map before them had he the power to do so. Leliana’s given only the facts; it’s clear where she stands and yet there’s no push. The choice is hers.

“Josephine?” Ellinor prompts. The ambassador has yet to offer an opinion and yet she stands so patiently, so at attention, that she knows she must have plenty to say.

“If I may,” Josephine says, clearly her throat. The room falls silent. Her eyes run over over her notes a mile a minute before she speaks. “Both options are wise. Both will be met with resistance, but both will be powerful. However…” Ellinor raises her eyebrows. “It appears we don’t have the option to reach out to one of them without angering the other.”

 _Oh_. And now she _grins_.

“We cannot enlist _both_ —”

“That won’t be a problem,” says Ellinor with a smile, pleasantries directed at Josephine only. “We’ll be working with the mages.”

What she doesn’t say is that she’s been itching to roam the Hinterlands since the moment Cassandra had told her the lands were overrun with apostates. That she had her pack ready before she’d even walked into the Chantry. That while Cullen and Leliana speak of templars and mages, the only name she could hears is _Avery_. Damn the templars, damn Orlais, damn the stuffy Fereldan Chantries, the entire town of Haven; she needs air, she needs freedom, she needs her brother. _And if there’s any chance…_

Cullen stares at her incredulously.

“Then the matter is settled,” says Josephine delicately.

“You can’t be serious!” Cullen exclaims.

Ellinor ignores him. “Excellent. I’ll leave first thing in the morning.”

“You two!” says Cullen, gesturing wildly at Cassandra and Leliana. “You’re just going to let her blindly overlook—”

“Commander, I’m not _blindly_ overlooking anything!” Ellinor snaps. “I have never met a templar I could trust, and I’m not about to waste my time—the inquisition’s time—searching for any now.”

“Herald,” Leliana says, curious though not argumentative, “one of your sisters is a templar.”

She means to clench her fist, to narrow her eyes, to say _she’s hardly my sister_ or maybe even better, _I have no sisters_ but instead she nods, forces a terse smile. _Bryony_. “That’s correct.”

* * *

  _Leliana,_

_We have traveled for nearly a week and we have yet to seek out Mother Giselle at the Crossroads. We wander aimlessly throughout the Hinterlands as though in search of something, though of what, I am unsure. I will write again when I have more to report._

_But I am beginning to question her intentions. I am beginning to question her commitment to the Inquisition._

_—Cassandra_

* * *

Ellinor twists the lavender in her fingers idly as she leans up against the fractured wall of the old fort, looking out to the road, watching, waiting. The blue-purple blossoms blur against the sun-soaked grasses of the Hinterlands as she twirls the stem patiently. _Lyssa’s favorite_ , she thinks, or at least it was when they were younger. Lavender isa rarity in the Free Marches—their parents would only gift it to her sister for birthdays—but in in the southern hills of Ferelden, it grows wild and unchecked and so she has picked her fill, stuffed her herbal pouch with stems and stems of the flower along with embrium and elfroot and a few belladonna blossoms when she’s stumbled upon them.

They’ve sat in wait for a long while now. _We’ve waited too long_. But she’s heard the reports, heard the growing concerns over templar and mage clashes rampant over the West Road so surely it was only a matter of time. They should be here. _I should be ready_. She turns from the window to find Cassandra writing over a piece of parchment, bent over the paper as though to keep its contents a secret, as though Ellinor _cared_. Solas sits patiently, _too_ patiently, she thinks, and Varric plays with the tunings of his crossbow, bored. She drops the stem of lavender into her pouch along with the rest of her herbs and flowers. Her companions hardly take note of her movements but she doesn’t mind; she’s never been one to be uncomfortable with silence, anyway.

She hasn’t told them wait they’re waiting for. She’s grateful Varric and Solas have yet to ask. Only Cassandra has so far voiced her disapproval for their stalling— _Redcliffe is_ that _way_ , she’s said on numerous occasions, again and again until Ellinor has half a mind to say _yes_ and _you’re right_ and _it is_ and _why don’t you just go on without me, then?_ —but she holds her tongue and together they hold their position. She doesn’t owe them an explanation. She’s been branded the Herald of Andraste against her will, _fine, then the Herald of Andraste will answer to no one_.

“You always mix your toxins with your tea flowers, Swift?”

She nearly jumps when Varric speaks to her. “Sorry?” she asks, resetting herself, exhaling deeply.

He chuckles; he saw her jump, _he saw_ , but he doesn’t tease her for it. Instead, he sets his crossbow— _Bianca, he calls it_ —on the ground beside him. “I said, ‘do you always mix—’”

“No,” she interrupts, “what did you call me?”

“Oh!” He grins. “That. ‘Swift.’ You know.” He makes sweeping gestures with his hands, miming daggers with a couple of added _whoosh_ noises for emphasis. “It suits you.”

She raises an eyebrow at him. _Swift_ , she thinks to herself; it’s not _Ellinor_ , too much familiarity too soon, and it’s not _Herald_ , not cold or distant. _Swift_. She turns back to the window with a hint of a smile on her face; no sooner has their conversation begun than it’s over and yet the tension in her chest has lessened if only a little. _Swift_ , she thinks again as she gazes back out to the road where the golden sun reaches for the hills to the west.

It’s not the gleam of silverite swords, the ebony-armored men that draws her eye first. Rather, it’s the flashes of deep blue, forest green, the rebellious wildfeather trim so indicative of a runaway mage that the trailing templars pick them out like dogs hot on a trail, follow in their black armor like midnight shadows though the golden grasses where only moments before there had been nothing but wind and setting sunlight. “There,” she whispers, hardly a breath of a word but it breaks their resumed silence and at the sound of her voice, her companions perk up.

“Herald,” Cassandra warns when Ellinor reaches over her shoulders for her knives, but she’s lost to them before they can stop her. _Oh_ the rush, the jump of her heart at the sight of the templar sigil carved deep red into the shields below, the tension in her knees when she readies herself for the jump, the way her eyes darken, lock in on her prey below. She doesn’t even hear Varric call after her before she jumps.

When the soles of her boots hit the dirt beneath her, it’s as though time stops for a moment. She’s light, she’s quiet, but a jump from the second story of the fort hardly goes unseen by either the templars or the mages. _Apostates_ , her heart thinks more than her brain and though none of them are Avery, she can’t help but feel one step closer to him, one step farther from the Marches and there’s so much she wants to ask them, _have you seen him_ and _do you know him_ and _where are you going_ , _what are you doing_ , _let me help you_ but the templars have seen her too and there will be time for questions later. Now, she fights.

 _There are only three_ , she thinks as they circle her; she’s taken on two at once before so _what’s one more?_ and besides, she’s faster than they are. For every one that lunges, she turns aside, their swords are big and they’re even bigger but she’s quick and light in her leathers, flexible, _bendable_ against their clunky armor. A clever jump grants her momentum; a quick crouch doubles as a dodge and a hit all at once when she’s able to sweep out her daggers at the weak points behind their knees.

She’s winded, yes; she’s hardly in the fighting shape Cassandra is but in the end she emerges victorious and with little more than a few bruises, the three templars fallen at her feet, the fight ending by the time Cassandra, Solas, and Varric come running out from the fort, armed, ready, but _oh, you’re too late_ , she thinks, wiping her brow, taking her breath.

She lowers her guard too quickly.

The fireball spell cast toward her is a miss.

A _near_ miss.

“Are you _crazy_ , Swift?” Varric yells at her, pulling the trigger on Bianca and taking cover behind her, though _why_ he thinks she’s a good shield when she’s hardly had time to react to the apostates’ hostility is beyond her. Another quick duck is all she can do to avoid a shock of chain lightning. She peeks up from the ground; Varric has dealt with the pyromancer but the lightning mage still fires wildly, _enraged_ ; _stop_ , she wants to think, _I’m on your side_ but words don’t come to her; there’s nothing she can do from her distance, not when the mage fires blindly and with reckless abandon, lighting up the soft glow of sunset with flashes of white in every direction and it’s all she can do to hold her breath, wait it out, _he can’t cast forever_.

She doesn’t have to wait. The flashes of lightning stop abrupting, the sky around them resumes its orange glow and when she looks up, Cassandra stands before her, a scowl upon on her face and a dead mage upon her sword.

“Foolish,” she mutters, yanking her blade from the mage’s body. He drops to the ground like a ragdoll. “Reckless.”

Ellinor pushes herself up off the ground, brushes the dirt from her thighs and her jacket. “I was trying to—”

“To what?” Cassandra barks. “To get yourself killed? To get _us_ killed?”

She bites her lip, Cassandra is _right_ but she’s stubborn, frustrated; rather than answer to her, she peers over the bodies of the mages, one in red-soaked blue, a single crossbow bolt piercing clean and deep into his chest, and the other in green, robes slashed through by Cassandra’s sword, no doubt. They’re young, _hardly twenty, if that_ , she thinks, but their features are distinctly Fereldan. She wonders now why she thought they might have known any word of Avery in the first place.

“Well,” she says, swallowing the empty feeling in her stomach, “we’re _not_ dead. And that’s three more rogue templars gone. I should think that’s a victory.”

Solas shakes his head at that. He’s hardly spoken to her at all since they’ve left Skyhold but now as he examines the bodies of the templars he _stares_ , his dark eyes boring into them. _He might kill them if they weren’t already dead_. “These three were weakened,” he explains, rolling over one of the dead templars with his foot, “by lyrium withdrawal. The cost of going rogue.”

“Then I would count yourself _lucky_ , Herald,” Cassandra says coldly, wiping the blood from her longsword before sheathing it in one quick sweep. “Not victorious.”

* * *

_Lady Trevelyan,_

_You may have fooled Cassandra and Cullen and Josephine, but you have not fooled me. I highly doubt you’ll find your brother in the Hinterlands and I suggest you stop looking. We have work to do. We have all made sacrifices for the Inquisition. It’s time you do the same. Make contact with the mages and return to Skyhold as soon as you’ve done so. We will discuss this on your return._

_—Leliana_


	4. In Fighting Shape

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone who was following along with my OCtober ficlets on tumblr might notice that the final scene here has been adapted from one of them! But for anyone else, hope you enjoy it!

Josephine is the first to call her by her name, her first name, her _given_ name—not Herald, not Lady Trevelyan, not Swift but _Ellinor_. Just Ellinor _._ On their return from Redcliffe, the ambassador is the only one to seek her out after the lengthy meeting in the back hall of the chantry, the first to ask if she needs anything, if she’s _okay_ , and Ellinor feels a swell of warmth and affection bubble inside her that she hasn’t known in ages.

She’d received no such pleasantries—not that she’d expected them—from Leliana or Cullen, and it seemed unlikely that she ever would, considering the letter she’d received from the spymaster in the Hinterlands and the way Cassandra had recounted their trip— _mages!_ and _apostates!_ and _the First Enchanter!_ were words enough to whiten the commander’s knuckles round the pommel of his sword, but _and now she’s fraternizing with a Tevinter!_ had to be Ellinor’s favorite line. Cullen looked like he might be sick on hearing it; he’d seemed pale on her arrival as it was, and his patience wore thinner and thinner as they went on discussing the trip. She could have eased his worry— _we’re not_ fraternizing _, not yet, anyway_ and _I only stayed to listen to what he has to say_ and yet she’d been happy to let him believe the worst of her. _Let him seethe over it_ , she’d thought, _let him bite_.

He’d held his tongue, though. No biting, no cold remarks, no thinly veiled criticism and disdain this time. This time, he’d stormed out of the room and into the halls of the chantry as soon as she and Cassandra had finished delivering the initial reports, mumbling something along the lines of _need to speak with this Warden_ and _at least_ someone _should vet our new agents_.

“I don’t know what his problem is,” Ellinor admits once Josephine’s thoroughly looked her over and decided she’d been honest with her—that she _was_ , after all, unhurt after their journey back from Redcliffe.

“Commander Cullen?” the ambassador replies, guiding her out of the room and across the chilly hall into her makeshift office.

Ellinor nods tiredly, running her fingers over her braids, loosened and dirty from their travels, as Josephine rummages through her desk drawers. _I could use a bath_ , she thinks, and as though reading her mind, the ambassador resurfaces and pushes a pair of glass bottles into her hand.

“From Antiva,” she says proudly. “Although these were purchased in Val Royeaux while you were gone.”

“What is...” But a closer look reveals delicately detailed labels; her Antivan is rusty at best but the tiny flower and water illustrations alongside the text indicate the bottles contain soap and bath oil. Suddenly the sour taste left from their briefings seems to disappear. It’s replaced instead with gratitude, warmth, and Ellinor finally finds the word she’d been looking for ever since the ambassador had rushed to her side after their meeting, calling her by her name. _Friend_. “Thank you, Josephine,” she says softly. “Truly.”

“It is nothing,” she replies, the same kindness still lighting up her dark eyes. “I would want the same if it were me returning all the way from Redcliffe.” Her words downplay the gift, but she beams nonetheless.

“I told Cullen that he might do well not to take out his frustrations on you,” Josephine says softly.

_Then he’ll just take them out elsewhere_ , she thinks, but the ambassador means well, and she knows it. “Thank you,” she says, nodding. “That’s...thoughtful of you.” _Considering he has the courtesies of a rabid dog around me._ “Anyway, I should go. Leliana—”

“What is it that you do not like about him?” Josephine asks suddenly, and Ellinor looks at her, open-mouthed. Scandalized.

“What is it—that _I_ don’t like?” she sputters. “It’s _Cullen_ who doesn’t like _me!_ He—he chastises me. He underestimates me. He’s always in a bad mood and—and he just…” She takes a deep breath. _Stop it_ , she thinks; she’s let her emotions get the best of her. A rare loss of control. She smooths her jacket instinctively. “He looks at me and he sees a highborn girl with nothing to offer the Inquisition but a mark on my hand. He judges me entirely by who I _was_. Not by who I’m trying to be.”

Josephine nods slowly. “I was just curious,” she says thoughtfully. “But I apologize—do not let me keep you. I know you meant to see Leliana before retiring for the night.”

“It’s nothing,” Ellinor says, regretting her outburst. _It’s me who should apologize._ “I...Josephine, thank you, for listening to me. You’ve been so kind since I’ve arrived here, without even knowing anything about me, and—”

She raises her hand in response, offering a small smile. “We all have our pasts and our reasons for being here, Ellinor,” she reminds her. “I am never one to make assumptions. A little kindness can go a long way.”

* * *

The sun is beginning to set when she exits the chantry, and however drafty it was in the great old building, it’s even more chilly outside of it. She pulls her jacket tighter around her, hearing the soap bottles from Josephine clink together in her pockets; _Maker, this bath can’t come soon enough_. But there’s still the spymaster to attend to. _We will discuss this on your return_ , Leliana had written in her letter, because _of course_ , how dare she put her own priorities before the Inquisition? Before the cause she’d been unjustly roped into? She pushes the bitterness back into her mind for now, though, when Varric passes her by with a friendly nod as he leads the Warden— _Blackwall, he’s called_ , their newest agent, retrieved from somewhere outside Redcliffe on recommendation from Leliana—toward the local tavern. She waves at the two of them in return. _Then Cullen must be done “vetting” him_ , she thinks, and her own thoughts are answered in turn as the commander’s shouting carries up the hill from the training area below them, harsh and unyielding as always. It’s nearly nightfall now; the recruits should be _done_ for the day. She grits her teeth, _oh, I could have words with him,_ she thinks as she makes to continue _past_ Leliana’s tent, down to the training ground and—

“Herald.”

Leliana’s voice rings out, clear and collected as ever into the brisk evening air. _Tomorrow_ , Ellinor thinks, unclenching her fists, tearing herself from the sounds of Cullen’s drills, from the chill of his words and the fist of his actions. _Tomorrow_. When she enters Leliana’s tent, the two scouts previously working before the spymaster’s desk exit wordlessly into the shadows of the dusk outside them, and Leliana, without making a sound, beckons her forward with just a finger.

“I got your letter,” Ellinor says simply, reaching into her pocket and thumbing over the worn paper inside. She’d read and reread the contents countless times upon receiving it somewhere along the West Road days earlier, first in shock, that someone— _anyone_ —had known her intentions, had known anything about Avery at all. She read it enough then to know she _shouldn’t_ be shocked, that it was Leliana’s _job_ to know things, and that of course the Inquisition—which had already pulled her from her chosen path once—would seek to rein her in again. After that, she read in anger. In fury. That the Inquisition would so much as dare to understand anything about her, about her family, about what she’s been through, about what _he’s_ been through. She read it enough to have crumpled the paper in her hand and then, hours later, to smooth it out again and reread its words. Now, back in Haven, she’s read enough. She’s collected herself, and she is _ready_.

But Leliana does not respond to her, not directly. “You know of the Hero of Ferelden?” she asks, tucking a small stack of reports into the shelf of her small desk. Ellinor gapes at her.

“I—well, _yes_ ,” she huffs. “I know that you knew her.”

“I _know_ her,” Leliana corrects, not deigning to look up from where she sits. Instead, she pours over a small scouting map covered in lines of every pattern and color, the meaning of each unintelligible to Ellinor. “She is a dear friend of mine. You remind me of her, at times.”

_You hardly know me_. “Yes,” she says instead, biting her tongue but not quite hard enough. “I recall I wear my hair like she did.”

“Like she _does_ , yes,” Leliana says, taking a quill and annotating the map carefully. Still, she does not look at her. “But that’s not all. Like you, she was forced onto a path she never wanted.”

“I never said—”

“Oh, but you think it,” she snaps, at last raising her ice-blue eyes to meet hers. She holds her gaze just long enough to send a chill down Ellinor’s spine. But she continues. “Emilia accepted the task set before her and she excelled at it. Just as I have no doubt you will.” She nods at Ellinor’s hand—even gloved, the anchor is there, crackling, _raging_.

“I’m not sure what any of this has to do with—”

“Just before Emilia became a Grey Warden, her family was murdered in their own home.” Ellinor swallows. Now, Leliana’s refuses to lose eye contact with her, _then I will not look down either_. “Her father,” the spymaster says. “Her mother. Her sister-in-law. Her nephew. And she _never let it go_. Near the end of the Blight, she almost let it her grief and her revenge come in the way of her duty. Almost.”

_Duty_. Is that was this was, to her? Was the Inquisition her _duty_?

“Open your eyes, Lady Trevelyan.” Her words are cold, but for once, not necessarily unkind. “You may only be _looking_ for your brother now, but you will not rest even once you find him. I’ve read the reports. I know how you feel about the Chantry. About the Order. I see right through your behavior on the West Roads and in the way you speak to Commander Cullen. It’s blindingly obvious and although your feelings and your opinions may be right, your actions do not always justify themselves. I know you will not rest until you get your revenge—”

“I’m not after _revenge_ ,” Ellinor hisses.

“But aren’t you?” Leliana says simply. “What is your plan, after you find him? Are you to waltz back to Ostwick, arm in arm, back to your family?”

“We just want to live in _peace_.” She speaks for herself and Avery both.

“There will be no peace for _anyone_ so long as this Breach remains open. So long as the templars and mages war with one another and there is no Divine to guide us.”

“But I’m not—”

“I don’t tell you this to reprimand you or to belittle you,” she continues, raising her voice. “I tell you because I have watched hatred and vengeance consume my friend from the inside out and nearly destroy not only her but the cause she worked so hard for. I will not let it happen to you as well. Not when we have a problem so much bigger than ourselves at our feet.”

She has said her piece. They wait in silence now, across from one another, blue eyes on brown as the candles burn low on her desk.

“I understand,” Ellinor says finally. She does. And Leliana knows it, granting her a short nod, a quiet dismissal as she lowers her gaze to return to her maps, and, finished, Ellinor turns her back to make her way back outside the camp.

“Lady Trevelyan,” Leliana adds quietly, and she turns back into the tent once more. “You will seek revenge, in the end. We all do.”

* * *

_Dear Cullen,_

_I wish you would say more in your letters. We’re_ worried _about you. The least you can do is let us know that you’re safe and all right and maybe write more than once every few months._

_They say the Herald of Andraste is a marvelous woman. Branson has a friend in Redcliffe who_ met _her and talks only of how kind and amicable she is. How lucky you are to work alongside her!_

_Please write back soon. The others say hello as well._

_With all my love,_

_Mia_

* * *

_Maker bless Josephine’s braiding skills,_ Ellinor thinks to herself, squinting into the bright morning sunlight. Though if her friend had known _why_ she’d requested such a close, tight braid that morning, she would without a doubt have refused. But it fits wonderfully under the recruit’s helmet she’d swiped from the smithy, all tucked into the mint hood. It is, again, far earlier than she’d like to be awake. And yet the commander’s actions from the night before—or lack thereof, maybe—left a bitter taste under her tongue. She had not forgotten. She never forgets.

Armored well, every trace of the lip stain and powder she might normally wear about the small town washed from her face, her hair hidden away—she is unrecognizable. And as she strolls among the recruits, free from bows and curtsies and _Your Worship_ s and low whispers, free from Leliana and Cassandra looking over her shoulder, she smiles. _It’s a wonder I haven’t tried this before_.

“You there!” yells Cullen from afar, and her smug smile melts off like snow under a lowered torch. _Good,_ she thinks, regardless, _it’s why I came_. “Are you here to _learn_ , or to take a leisurely walk?”

He stares at her with eyes narrowed, reddened from Maker knows what, and his face even paler than the evening before in the war room. He’s tired, and cranky, and irritable. He always is—barking harsh criticism at even the very newest of recruits, ready to snap at any mistake, every mistake. She ignores Josephine’s words from the night before, wise as they may be. She has had enough.

“To learn, Commander,” she replies boldly, deepening her voice, holding herself high, wide, larger than she is. “Although I have to wonder, will you only continue to bellow instructions at us from afar, or will you ever demonstrate the skills that landed you your position here?”

Swords and jaws alike drop, and a hush falls over the recruits. Cullen turns sharply at her, reeling at her insubordination, _good_ , she thinks, she finally sees the return of his bite, the red behind the gold, he’s finally rid of the leash he’d held himself on around Ellinor the Inquisitor. Ellinor the Recruit, apparently, demands no such restraint.

“Unsheathe your blade, soldier,” he snarls at her, inching forward like a lion stalking his pray, and for a split second she wonders at how quickly she’s reached the point of no return, but _enough of that now_ , this is what she wanted.

“Did you not hear me?” he growls when he’s reached her.

His exhaustion is more apparent in this proximity; she avoids his gaze but takes in all else, the dark circles, the untidy stubble, and _are his hands shaking_?

“Unsheathe. Your. Blade.”

“Two, ser,” she replies coolly, still refusing both to fold under his glare and to meet it with her own. She pulls each dagger—sharp onyx and obsidian, unrecognizable from the two she’d previously equipped from Ostwick—from over her shoulders, gripping the hilts, calming her nerves, _this is what you wanted—_ her speed and her flexibility work for her and his exhaustion against him and she’s not afraid. Not even when he pulls his own sword from its sheath, great and glimmering and nearly as tall as she is.

“When you’re ready,” he says, circling her, and she’s never felt _more_ ready.

“By your leave, ser,” she smirks.

And he _swings_.

She is quick, that much she already knew, smirks and smiles gone. _Swing_ , duck, _swing_ , turn, _swing_ , jump. She could dodge him all day, but has she enough time to deal a hit? She learns, quickly, _maybe not_. _Swing_ , spin, _a close hit_ , a good dodge.

The first blow he lands on her is flat against her ribs, _not as hard as he could’ve_ , she thinks with a grimace, but hard enough to knock the air from her lungs, hard enough to add to the bruises she’d acquired in the Hinterlands. And yet she’s far from done, back on her feet, skin bruised but pride certainly not. _Never_.

She returns to her jabs, her jumps, her turns, her steel against his silverite, and _Maker_ , she’s growing tired, _why isn’t he_? His sword can land flat blows, injuring blows, but the stabs of her knives are meant to kill, not to _spar_.

She’s not so lucky with his second hit, _his last hit_. It comes fast, faster than she ever expected from him _especially in this state, whatever state it is_ , and it knocks her flat on her back against the frozen Haven ground. Mumbles come from the recruits, none dare speak louder than a whisper, and Cullen stands before her, victorious but uncelebratory, a winner who hadn’t been looking for a prize in the first place.

And finally, on the ground before him in defeat, her eyes meet his. And he knows. For all his stubbornness and his lack of courtesies, he’s surprisingly quick to return to professionalism; she is no longer his subordinate but rather his leader, like it or no. “Herald,” he mutters gruffly, reddening, straightening, holding a hand out for her out of etiquette alone. She stands without it, stands on her own, and he wraps his fingers around the pommel of his sword once more. “Had I known–”

“I should hope you would have acted no differently,” she says coldly. She knows that’s not the case and hopes only that he has learned a lesson in civility, in leadership towards his men.

_I underestimated him_ , she notes, and he’s not the only one who’s learned something today. She rubs her sore ribs in retreat, leaving him behind with recruits who awaited his command, his lessons.

_I will not underestimate him again_.


	5. Greetings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes, I do know that Ellinor already visited Redcliffe last chapter and that canonically, you're supposed to visit Val Royeaux first. but we're twisting canon here.

_My dearest Ellie,_

_I do hope this letter finds its way to you. This Inquisition may be making a name for itself already, but I have little faith in post running smoothly anywhere on the Fereldan side of the Frostbacks._

_Word has reached Val Royeaux of the events around Haven. Mother and Father had written me before you left to attend the Conclave—I was worried sick when I’d heard about the temple explosion. I cannot express the relief I felt when rumors began to spread of a young Marcher girl who survived—a “young Trevelyan from Ostwick.” You—my dear little sister, the Herald of Andraste! A part of the Inquisition! How truly honored you must be. Ellie, I am so very proud of you._

_But I write for more than only congratulations. I know you must be busy, and I know it’s been some time since we last spoke, but Ellie, I need your help with something. Please let me know that you are safe, first, and also where and how to find you. Or, if you find yourself in Val Royeaux, please, please come visit. We have much to speak of._

_With all of my love,_

_Lyssa_

* * *

They’d only had horses growing up. Never cats. Some hunting hounds, yes, but they’d belonged to their father— _the dogs are not_ pets _, Ellie_ , she’d been told one too many times—and Reilly had had a little bird, once, when Ellinor was too young to keep a pet for herself at all, and after opening the birdcage once to try and hold it because it was _Reilly_ , and she just _had_ to, it flew away, and there was no more bird for Reilly, and there were no more pets for any of them except for the horse each had been given by their father upon their tenth birthdays—a foal of their choice, bred only from the finest of Bann Trevelyan’s stallions. Bryony had chosen one of pure white, large enough when it was fully grown to be a stock horse, nearly, but bred for speed and sport. Reilly’s foal was chosen for looks alone, a dapple gray filly she never once rode herself but instead had trained to pull her carriage through the streets of Ostwick where other girls would _ooh_ and _ahh_ with a jealousy she was only too happy to watch from her carriage window. Lyssa had chosen the smallest of the spring’s foals; like Reilly, she never rode it, and truth be told it was always a bit more weak and sickly than the other horses. It might have died had Lyssa not painstakingly cared for it, begged her father to let her keep it even after years had passed and it had become obvious it would never amount to her siblings’ mounts. Avery and Ellinor each, on their tenth birthday, fought over the only white foal of the spring, bred from the same stud as Bryony’s horse, illustrious and bright and to be undoubtedly unmatched in its adult years. They bickered over the who would choose first for hours. Avery called Ellinor names. Ellinor pushed Avery into the muck of the stables.

Ellinor was given second choice.

And so from her tenth year up until she left Ostwick for Ferelden, her only pet—her only animal companion, other than Avery, whose own stallion proved as mighty and beautiful as Bryony’s but high-strung and unbroken from his own master’s indifference toward training it—was a hardy mare black as night bearing a mane long and dark like a starless sky, named affectionately Whinny for how talkative she was. Ellinor grew to be an accomplished rider, _enough to challenge Bryony_ , her father had noted once, to Ellinor’s dismay, and it was Whinny she took all the way to the port of Ostwick when she departed for the Conclave.

She was the only pet she ever had. Never a cat.

While Master Dennet’s steeds are more than fit for riding—unrivaled over Frostback terrain, truly—none of them are Whinny, and she becomes quite vocal about this, asking the poor horsemaster when they might aquire any _black_ horses, and when he does she asks for one with more _strength_ , more _spirit_ , more _speed_ , and eventually Master Dennet gives up: _Lady Trevelyan, there is only one person here likely to find a horse to your standards, and I’m looking at her_.

She’s all right with that. She can ride any mount Master Dennet provides. It’s expected of a Trevelyan, after all.

Keeping a cat, however, is not expected. Or perhaps it’s the cat that keeps her.

He begins to follow her in the days after their return from the Hinterlands, lithe and quiet and thick with wild tufts of black fur that stand out against their snowy surroundings. At first she ignores him, letting him trail her at a distance from the smithy where she speaks with Blackwall frequently to the small tavern where she meets with Varric for drinks to her little cabin where she goes to sleep each night. He even follows her to the training grounds whenever she practices her bladework with Cassandra, slinking low at a safe distance from the sparring recruits and sometimes—though more often than Ellinor would like—curling up outside of the large tent Cullen works out of. But it’s not until he follows her right into Josephine’s office for tea, settling in on her lap after she pours a cup each for herself and the ambassador, that Ellinor decides he’s _her_ cat.

The decision is met with warm smiles from Josephine, surprising approval from Leliana, slight annoyance from Cassandra, and overwhelming indifference from Cullen.

“Shoo,” he mutters when it follows her into the war room the morning she is to leave for Val Royeaux— _oh_ , she almost wants to say, _I didn’t realize the Inquisition’s cats reported to you as well, Commander_ —and he gives the cat a light nudge with the toe of his boot. “Go on, then.”

“You are not a fan of cats, Commander?” Josephine asks, a humored smile playing at her lips.

Cullen half shrugs at her. “I don’t dislike them,” he says, watching as the cat trots out of the room. “They’re...good at keeping the mice down, at least.”

 _Good for mice_ , Ellinor thinks, closing her eyes to hide her eye roll and inhaling deeply through her nose.

“Truth be told, I’d prefer a mabari, but my family could never af—”

“A _mabari_?” she interrupts him, any semblance of calm abandoned. He stares back at her, open mouthed. “They’re _horrid_ ,” she continues, and now his confusion is replaced with indignation, “they’re—they’re _gigantic_ , first of all, and—”

“The ones in the Hinterlands were the first she has ever encountered—” Cassandra tries to explain.

“—and slobbery, and _mean_ —”

“None of them were very friendly,” the Seeker agrees, though between Cullen’s glaring and Ellinor’s ranting, she might as well have not spoken at all.

“—and ugly—”

“Honestly—” Cullen starts, standing up, but Josephine raises a single hand and instantly, everyone is silent.

“Ellinor,” she says, and Ellinor purses her lips together. The ambassador’s smile is sweet and kind in spite of her own lack of tact, and for that, she is sorry. “In Ferelden, mabari are kept as loyal companions. It is my understanding that the Queen of Ferelden herself has one—” Leliana nods pointedly, “—and they are widely regarded as noble and admirable creatures.” Ellinor wrinkles her nose at that but it’s _Josephine_ , after all; she has no further argument. “And Cullen,” Josephine continues. He crosses his arms, listening but not returning to his seat. “You know as well as any Fereldan that a mabari in the wrong hands can be vicious. I hardly think Ellinor’s first impression of them is unjustified.” He clenches his jaw and says no more. _Bless her_.

“Are you ready, Herald?” Cassandra asks.

 _Business as usual_.

Leliana reaches over the table, presses an ornate envelope into her hand. “Your invitation,” she says with a nod, and Cullen clears his throat pointedly.

“I don’t see why we need to pander to this ‘Madame de Fer,’” he says, a final appeal after days of grumbling over the letter Ellinor had received from the First Enchanter. “The least you could do if you’re traveling to Val Royeaux is meet with the clerics there—they _must_ see reason; I’m sure you and Cassandra could sway their opinions of us.” He’s blind to Ellinor’s eye roll, but she makes no moves to silence him. “We’ve all but formally allied with the mages of Redcliffe as it is. We hardly need _another_ , not with Solas already on board, and it seems to me that she may be a pawn of Empress Celene’s. Correct me if I’m misunderstanding something, but—”

“Your understanding is crystal clear, Commander,” Ellinor says tersely, pocketing the envelope and turning once more to Leliana and continuing as though he’d never chimed in at all. “The road conditions to Val Royeaux?”

“Excellent,” the spymaster returns, and it’s all Ellinor can do not to bite back at the way Cullen clenches his fist, at the knowing glance he shares with Cassandra through reddened, weary eyes. “My scouts report little bandit activity on routes out of the mountains, and those we have made note of will be taken care of by two battalions Cullen dispatched yesterday morning.”

“Very good,” Ellinor replies. “Josephine?”

“Do not lose your invitation,” the ambassador instructs, “and do not let it bend or crinkle in your pocket. How you present the invitation will leave an important impression of Madame de Fer.”

“Understood.” She shares a small smile with Josephine—both know she has a perfect understanding of how to behave under the gaze of someone so important as Montsimmard’s First Enchanter and yet protocol is protocol, and Ellinor knows her friend well. _No such thing as_ too _prepared_. “Varric and Solas are prepared to leave,” she says, to all three of them.

“As am I,” Cassandra declares, and Ellinor nods at her.

“Then if there’s nothing else—”

“Actually, Ellinor…” She snaps her head up, _Ellinor_ , her name, and not from Josephine’s lips. It’s Leliana this time, holding out a second envelope. “You’ve one more letter, I believe.” Ellinor raises her eyebrows, and the spymaster passes the envelope to Josephine beside her.

“Another from Val Royeaux,” she says, and Cullen frowns. “It’s signed by a…” Josephine brings the envelope closer to her face, squinting at the tiny cursive script on the back. “Lady Lyssa LeClaire,” she reads, shrugging. Ellinor pales.

Only Leliana seems to notice.

“Née Trevelyan,” the spymaster clarifies.

 _She knows_. _Of_ course _she knows._

“Here,” Josephine says, holding out the letter to her, but Ellinor shakes her head vehemently. “Perhaps it is important? Your sister—she must know of the Inquisition by now. We are not far from Val Royeaux. Perhaps she wishes to see you.”

“No,” she says simply. “No.”

“Ellinor—”

“She _wants_ something from me,” she says immediately, _she must_. She hasn’t spoken to any of them—Lyssa or Reilly or Bryony—for years. Since each of them left the Trevelyan estate, in their own turn, off to the _Order_ or to a _husband_ , to make Jaime and Rosalind Trevelyan _proud_ , leaving Ellinor behind as the last of them.

“I could read it for you, if you would like,” Josephine offers softly. _Kindly_. “I could respond—”

She pulls the envelope from Josephine’s hand, shoving it into her pocket along with the invitation from Madame de Fer. “We will _not_ be responding,” she says through gritted teeth, “and I will _not_ be visiting her in Val Royeaux.”

Her heart hurts when she sees Josephine’s wounded look.

“I—” she starts, swallowing, _too harsh_ , she thinks, _but they don’t know her_.

 _They don’t know them_.

“Forgive me,” she says softly, and Josephine nods. “I’m sorry. But I won’t…” She glances at Leliana this time. “I can’t distract myself with matters of my family right now,” she finishes, and the spymaster raises her eyebrows. Curious. _Approving_.

“Then we will respect your decision, Ellinor,” she says, _Ellinor_ , again, and she can’t help but feel guilty at the half lie she’s told. Not when she’d rather jump into the Breach itself than speak with any of her sisters. Not when Avery was still the first person on her mind in the morning, and the last she thought of at night.

Cassandra clears her throat. “We need to start out now if we wish to make it into the valley before nightfall,” she says determinedly, and their meeting is decidedly over. Leliana leaves first, bidding her a short _goodbye_ and a near afterthought of a _good luck_ , Cassandra trailing her and muttering something about _that dwarf better be ready to leave_. The ambassador waits for her, all smiles once more, _never any hard feelings_ and Ellinor can’t help but feel a rush of warmth and gratitude for her.

“Josephine,” she says, smiling back, taking her friend by the hand as the exit the room together, “will you feed the cat while I’m gone?”

“Of course,” she replies. _Of course_.

Cullen coughs behind them.

 _Of course_.

“Herald,” he sighs, “the cats here serve a purpose to kill the mice in the Chantry. Feeding them scraps will keep them from doing their job.”

She ignores him, continuing down the long Chantry hallway, out toward the bright light of the outdoors as the shelter of the old building makes way to a chilly draft before them. “Thank you, Josephine,” she says, squeezing her hand before letting go. It’s not until they’ve arrived at the doorway that she finally turns around to Cullen, just as he tries to slip by, _not so fast_.

“Commander,” she says coldly, seeing his jaw clench again. He has no _choice_ but to listen to her, she knows, and yet she’ll take any authority her position may grant her for this. “Until you consider ending your training sessions before suppertime, you’re in no position to comment on anyone’s eating habits here. Least of all the cat’s.”

* * *

“Do not,” she says softly as they wait in the main square of Val Royeaux, “draw any attention to us.”

It’s a tall order, she knows, as the four of them stand together under in the sunlit marketplace, Cassandra proud and tall, Ellinor rigid, _commanded_ , and Solas and Varric out of place no matter how hard they try to appear otherwise. She’s had them waiting for nearly an hour, eyeing the clerics as they preach and propogate before the small crowd before them, waiting, _listening_.

“I thought we were here to visit Miss Fancy Pants Enchanter,” mutters Varric.

“We will,” she assures him, still peeking over to where the crowd has gathered in front of the makeshift stage. Revealing herself to the already-riled-up citizens will do them no favors, _and yet_ … “I just want to see if we can talk any sense into the Revered Mother first.”

She’s pulled back sharply by the shoulder, turned face to face with Cassandra, who stares at her sternly, eyes narrowed. “You specifically spoke _against_ meeting with the Revered Mother,” she says pointedly, _angrily_.

Ellinor snorts, brushing her off. “I didn’t want to give Commander Cullen the satisfaction of taking his suggestion,” she says simply. “I’d be a fool not to try and reconcile our relationship with the Chantry, though, so—”

“So your distaste for Cullen comes before your cooperation with the Inquisition, then?”

 _Absolutely_ , she thinks first, opens her mouth to say so and then she thinks of Josephine. Of Leliana. Two people both patient and kind to her, and it’s not only Cullen she’d deceived in the war room before she’d left.

And so she says nothing.

“He is a good man, Herald,” Cassandra tells her finally.

 _He is vile_.

“He has come a long way to serve with us as he does.”

_He is one of them._

“He did not have to join the Inquisition when I asked him to. But he did.”

_Just like Bryony._

“If I recall correctly,” Ellinor snaps, “there wasn’t much left of his Circle, was there? It would’ve been foolish of him to pass up the opportunity.”

Cassandra grabs her by the wrist. “You—” she starts, _is she_ angry _?_ “—you think so little of him.”

“Yes,” she replies, not losing eye contact. “I do.”

She lets go. “You think little of him because you _know_ little of him,” she says quietly, turning away. “I pray that one day you are not so ignorant and narrow-minded as you are today, Herald, and I—”

“Don’t mean to interrupt, Seeker,” coughs Varric behind them, and they both turn around. “Swift. But, uh, you might want to take a look over to our dear Revered Mother right about now.”

Ellinor turns sharply back to the square. Her blood turns cold in her veins.

Templars. Rows of them, sharp and imposing and clad in armor black as onyx against the bright stonework and pastels of the city behind them, hulking and brutish before the clerics and the cityfolk in the square. “No,” she whispers.

“ _No_ ,” Cassandra repeats, and she follows her gaze to the leader of the group, a man young and stern and bearing the same symbol Cassandra wears on her own breastplate—the eye of the Seekers.

They can’t hear the exchange from where they stand; they’re too far away, and for once Ellinor curses her own choice to wait and bide their time because it’s all happening too fast, even as they stride toward the center of the square and at once when the Lord Seeker raises his hand against the Revered Mother, she draws her blades from behind her and as she opens her mouth to yell out, a second voice joins her own. Cassandra’s. “ _No!_ ”

 _So much for not drawing attention_.

Any semblance of order left in the square is gone in an instant at the sight of the Herald of Andraste herself, the Lady Seeker, declarer of the Inquisition, and all eyes—and blades—are upon them in an instant. The citizens scatter nearly too late for their own good, _Orlesians_ , Ellinor can’t help but think, and yet again they find themselves in the midst of templar bloodshed—it seems to be their lot in life, now—and yet they are a _force_ in tandem, Cassandra and Ellinor, her two blades to Cassandra’s one and even with ranged support from Varric and Solas, they work in perfect synchrony, hard hours of practice in Haven paying off tenfold as they make quick work of the templars engaged with them, and it’s only a matter of minutes before those who remained are dead at their feet and those who fled—along with the Lord Seeker, it would seem—are nowhere to be seen.

“ _Maker_ ,” Cassandra spits, wiping a spatter of blood from her cheek. “Are you all right?”

“I—” Ellinor starts, out of breath, taken aback, “yes, are you?”

She nods in turn, eyeing the bodies around her before spotting the Revered Mother still on the stage where she’d fallen at the Lord Seeker’s hand. “I will see to this,” she tells her, sheathing her sword. “Lucius Corin will pay for what he has started here.” She makes her way to the Revered Mother, purposeful, determined and yet unhurried, and Ellinor takes a deep breath, closes her eyes, runs a bloodied hand over her partially undone braid. When she feels a weight upon her shoulder she expects Varric, Solas even, but when she turns to look, it’s a delicate hand, lace gloved and adorned in jeweled rings on every other elegant finger.

Her heart stops.

“Ellie?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what an awful week it's been on tumblr, if any readers are coming from there. but it's also spurred me to work harder on this. <3


	6. A Friend in Need

When Ellinor is twelve years old, Bann Jaime Trevelyan and his wife, Lady Rosalind Trevelyan, accompany their second- and third-oldest daughters to a ball in Tantervale. Ellinor is not allowed to come along— _aren’t you mad they didn’t bring you?_ Avery asks, and she shrugs, neither a yes nor a no, _I thought you wanted to go dancing,_ he points out; _I did_ , she says, _but they’re looking for_ suitors _for Reilly_ , to which he replies, _who would want to marry_ Reilly _?_ and they laugh because it’s true and because _Reilly is a nitwit_ , in Avery’s words, and because they are twelve and their sisters are are sixteen and seventeen and nineteen and boring and proper and always, _always_ trying far too hard to be their mother and father’s favorites. Always.

But the search for someone who can put up with Reilly long enough to marry her is not quite the only reason Ellinor is glad to have stayed behind; Avery knows this when sundown approaches the day after their parents leave and she asks him, _will you show me the lights?_ and he grins, _yes_ , and they slip out of the great estate, run down the grassy hills down to the pastures below— _keep_ up _, Ell!_ Avery calls back to her when he races ahead and she sticks her tongue out, pauses to pull off her shoes and her stockings and hoist her skirts up to her knees before catching up, _you try keeping up wearing all of this_ —finally running _away_ , far enough away, past the stables where the sun has already slid behind the hills and the sky has darkened and no one can find them and Avery can show her the lights.

 _Okay,_ she says when they round the corner into the brush behind the buildings, taking a moment to catch her breath as Avery pulls her down to sit in the grass next to him, _show me_ , and he grins. _Are you ready?_ he asks her, and she nods, eagerly, _I’m ready_ and _of course._

He closes his eyes.

So often, they think on the same wavelength. Have the same reactions, feel the same things.

Not with this. Never with this.

And when he takes a deep breath and the little flames emerge from his fingertips and begin to dance around her, she knows she will never, _ever_ understand it but that she will always love it. To create something out of nothing, to decorate the cool dark night with little bits of firelight prettier than the stars themselves. _Magic_.

 _How do you do it?_ she whispers, the same question, every time. And she receives the same answer.

_Don’t know._

It’s a secret between the two of them. It has been ever since he first caught her after a harp lesson and hissed _Ell, come look!_ and dragged her into an empty corridor and sat her down on the floor and showed her the little lights because suddenly, _instantly_ she knew that they were wrong. That everyone was wrong. The sisters at the Ostwick Chantry, preaching fear-mongering sermons and bellowing Transfigurations 1:2 at every turn, were wrong. Bryony, fresh from her first year of Templar training and lecturing their family about the dangers of magic on her every visit home, was wrong. Her parents, every couple years or so speaking in hushed tones and with scandalized glances about a neighbor or a distant relative or another Ostwick citizen and their magic and assuring the children that _we will not be seeing them again,_ were wrong.

Because how can she be afraid of magic when it comes from Avery? How can she be afraid of _him_? And so she asks him, as they sit under twilight skies behind the stables making jokes at Reilly and Lyssa’s expense and wondering whether their mother and father will bring them gifts from Tantervale and watching the pretty firelights dance around them under the direction of Avery’s slow-moving fingertips, _what will you do with it?_

 _The magic?_ he asks, and she nods.

He never has time to answer her.

They were not careful enough.

In the distance, they hear the calls of their governess, of old Ruth yelling out to them, _Ellinor!_ and _Avery!_ and _it’s late!_ and _where have you two run off to this time?_

 _Put them out_ , Ellinor whispers, her heart pounding, and he tries, he _tries_ , clenches his fist and squeezes his eyes shut and _I can’t, Ell!_ and _what do you mean, you can’t—you could last time you showed me!_ and all the while Ruth’s stern yelling descends from the hillside and the night and dark but the lights are bright and they don’t have long, they know they don’t, _Avery, put them out!_ but _I’m_ trying _, Ell!_ and instead of dimming out and disappearing into little wisps of smoke like last time, the lights only grow larger, burn brighter, and Ellinor isn’t sure which seems louder as the seconds pass them by—her own heartbeat or the nearing sounds of leaves crunching in the grasses signaling Ruth’s approach. _Avery, she’ll see!_ and then _Ell, I can’t, I’m sorry, I can’t._

It’s too late. Ruth arrives.

If she says anything, Ellinor doesn’t hear her.

In a single flash of light, in a fraction of a second, the flames burn too bright, too hot, too close.

Her arms fly up to shield herself.

She screams.

* * *

_Lord and Lady Treveylan,_

_I beg you to return at once. Ellinor has been hurt. The boy is at fault. I will not watch him any longer. Please return at once. I have contacted the Order at the Ostwick Circle. He is a danger to your daughter and to me and to everyone else._

_Ruth_

* * *

“Ellie?”

It’s warm under the sun that shines off the stonework of Val Royeaux, and it’s warm under the red bloodstains on her jacket from the templars who’d fallen on her knives, but Ellinor’s blood turns to ice in her veins nonetheless. She _knows_ this voice. It’s one she’s not heard in a long, long time. A quick glance shows her Cassandra is too far away now, Varric and Solas off elsewhere or at least not within range. She is alone. Alone with—

“It’s you,” she says stiffly, _deep breath, shoulders back, collect yourself_. She does not smile. She does not say _hello_. She turns around slowly, calmly, silently until she stands, sun behind her, templar blood trickling down her braid against her scalp, face to face with the one and the only Lyssa LeClaire.

Lyssa Ariela LeClaire—née Trevelyan.

The second-oldest Trevelyan daughter has not changed much since Ellinor last saw her. Richer, maybe, in her Orlesian attire—far fancier than even the Marcher dresses Ellinor had worn when she first traveled to Haven—and taller, if it’s possible, in the heels laced around her dainty feet. Lyssa had always been tall and thin and wiry to Ellinor’s petite build; the latest fashions in Val Royeaux footwear only made the difference that much more apparent. Even still, she looks the same.

“Yes, Ellie,” she says quietly, a silent nod, _it’s true_. “It’s me.”

She looks the same until Ellinor looks upon her face.

Gone is girlish blush, the pink of her ever-pouting lips that once contrasted so nicely with her coffee-cream skin—lighter than the rest of the Trevelyans, lighter certainly than Ellinor’s own copper-gold tone; she always had been—and even under the shade of her lace parasol, her chocolate brown eyes look tired. Worried. Still, she wears a smile, hopeful— _forced_ —upon seeing Ellinor, and it leaves a taste in her mouth that’s salty and metallic as the blood she wipes from her face before raising an eyebrow at her sister.

“What are you—” Lyssa starts, her eyes running up and down Ellinor’s form before grimacing at the templar bodies behind her. “What happened? Are you hurt? What are you—”

“I’m fine,” Ellinor mutters. She will not go as far as to say she was, just moments before, fighting in defense of a few Chantry clerics. _Unlikely Lyssa would believe me if I did_. Thankfully, she doesn’t press the matter.

“I...I can’t believe you’re here,” she says slowly, cautiously, blinking as though not believing. “That you came to see me.”

Ellinor barks out a short laugh then, harsher than she means and yet not nearly too harsh to regret. Nervous, perhaps, _but I will not let on._ “Lyssa, I didn’t come here to visit _you_.” The truth bites. She’s glad for it.

“But you...but I wrote you,” Lyssa says, confused. _Hurt_ , maybe.

“I know you wrote me.” The letter is still in her pocket. She clenches her fists once, just to keep from reaching for it where it sits tucked away and still sealed beside Madame de Fer’s invitation. The blood in her gloves drips to the cobblestone below when she does, but she pays it no mind. Lyssa’s mouth opens to a small _o_ when she sees it. “Val Royeaux’s a big city,” Ellinor continues, unbothered. “My _friends_ and I have business here.” She emphasizes the word, _friends_ , she’s not sure if they are that much but it gives her strength to say it. Even if it’s a lie.

“Yes, I…” Lyssa bites her lip. “Yes, I’m sure you do. Now that you’re with the Inquisition, and—”

“You know I’m a part of the Inquisition?” she interrupts her. It’s a silly question when she’s found her ankle deep in templar bodies and traveling in the company of an Inquisition-chainmail-clad Seeker, but still, she’s had no contact with Lyssa—with any of her family—since before Haven. _Word spreads fast._

And Lyssa’s face falls. She licks her lips, slowly, pursing them together, eyes brown and empty and searching for anything in Ellinor’s, dark, fiery and cold all at once.“You didn’t read read my letter, did you?” she asks quietly. “Ellie, you couldn’t at least just r—”

“Why?” she snaps, an _explosion_ of pent-up tension and _oh it feels excellent_. Her eyes could burn a hole into Lyssa if she tried hard enough and she is relentless when she speaks. “Why would I? For years, Lyssa, _years_ , you’ve never _written_ to me! Why now?” She could pull her hair out over her, _no,_ she thinks, reigning herself back, _no, breathe, shoulders back, stand tall._ She takes a deep breath. “I didn’t _have_ to read it. I know you want something. You heard I’m with the Inquisition now and suddenly you _want_ something, isn’t that it? Maker, I’d never have heard from you otherwise.”

“I didn’t think you wanted to hear from me,” she replies, barely a whisper.

Ellinor huffs another laugh. “And you were right.” She turns now, searching the square for any sign of Varric or Solas, and—

“It’s about Bryony.”

She stops. Her skin prickles with goosebumps, and she turns back around, cold, quiet. “What of her?”

Lyssa had always been closest to Bryony, she knows—the two oldest, just two years apart, Bryony’s brawn and intensity a perfect complement to Lyssa’s delicate and demure self. Of course it was about _Bryony_. Lyssa swallows now, steps forward, forward, nearly closing the distance between them. It’s bold of her, and it scares her, Ellinor can tell.

 _Good_.

“I know you’ve never been close but—”

“Lyssa,” she stops her, a wry laugh, humorless and icy. “There’s no one here to put on a show for. I hate her. I despise her. I have not forgotten what she did, even if you have—even if you never cared—”

“Yes,” Lyssa nods. Her voice shakes, but she continues. “Avery. I know.”

“Of course you know,” Ellinor hisses. “You stood there and you _watched her take him_.”

“Ellie, I—”

“You _watched_!” Ellinor shouts at her. She’s quite certain any lingering bystanders from before are listening to them but she doesn’t care. “You watched and you said _nothing_! You did nothing! While Bryony and her captain and her _friends_ dragged him _screaming_ out of our own home and Mother and Father went to go see about dinner and Reilly didn’t even look up from her harp playing and you just _watched_ and did _nothing_!”

“I know,” Lyssa says, and she’s on the verge of tears now but _oh_ Ellinor could not possibly care any less; _let her cry if she wants,_ she thinks, mere raindrops in the ocean of tears she’d shed for Avery and she’s never before said any of this to anyone, let alone only Lyssa, but she is here and she is free and there are no Jaime and Rosalind Trevelyan to stand watch over her fury and her wrath this time.

“If you know, then I have nothing more to say to you.” She spots Varric and Solas by their hiding spot from earlier, _thank the Maker_ , she thinks, but Lyssa must make note of her plans for an exit because she steps closer to her, _the nerve_ , clasps her hands together almost as though in prayer.

“ _Ellie_ ,” she pleads. “I know you hate her. I know. But I don’t know where else to go, what else to do—the Circles are broken! The templars are scattered. I haven’t heard from her in nearly _three years_ now—she only writes to Mother and Father and it’s only to say that she’s well and that she’s working to make things right but I don’t _believe_ her—she needs _help_ , Ellie, _please!_ ”

She raises her hand to silence her. Lyssa’s face has reddened, anxious, hurt, _desperate_.

Ellinor feels nothing.

“I don’t care,” she says simply.

Lyssa swallows, hard, again, blinking rapidly. “You _should_ care,” she presses in spite of her herself.

“Well,” she replies, turning around. Varric and Solas and now even Cassandra are watching from afar, keeping their distance, _a wise decision_. “I don’t.’”

“She’s your _sister_ —”

“And Avery was your brother!” Ellinor yells, spinning on her heels to glare at her, and Lyssa shrinks back.

“Is,” she says in a small voice. “Ellie, he _is_ my brother still. I know you’re looking for h—”

“No,” Ellinor says, a low growl, _I’m losing myself_ , she knows, but she has no plans to stop. “No, no, no. He is _not_ yours anymore, he doesn’t belong to you or Mother or Father or _anyone_. You all made sure of that.”

If Lyssa has another response, she never hears it.

She’s very nearly struck in the toe of her heeled shoe—if she weren’t so tense Ellinor might have laughed at the way she _yelps_ —by an arrow that grazes the cobblestone instead, clattering to a stop on the ground a few feet away. Whoever shot it has either excellent or just-not-good-enough aim.

“Lyssie!” From out of seemingly nowhere, an elf—or at least Ellinor thinks it’s an elf, it’s more of a blonde blur than anything else—swings down from somewhere high above them, somersaulting to a stop next to the two of them. “Lyss!” the blonde says—she _is_ an elf, Ellinor notes when she jumps into a standing position—before peeking around them at the bloodstained cobblestone. “Missed all the fun, then?” she asks, to Lyssa or Ellinor, she’ll never be sure. “S’all right, though, Lyssie, not here for the stabbity stabs today, more here for the whispers, yeah? The words. _Information_.”

Lyssa looks, exasperated, between the elf and Ellinor. Ellinor looks at the elf. The elf taps her foot into the reddened cobblestone, staring at Lyssa expectantly as though Ellinor isn’t even there. “I…” Lyssa starts, clearing her throat. Her voice is hoarse and choked up.

 _Serves her right_ , Ellinor thinks. Just minutes before, she’d been well intent on leaving. Now, she’s curious.

“I told you, I don’t know anything more about Lord Harmond.”

“Mm,” the elf says, pulling another arrow from her quiver and twirling it between her fingers. “Thought you’d say that, Lyssie. Fact, your husband said the same thing.”

“You saw Mathieu?”

The elf snorts a laugh. “Yeah, yeah, and so can you, when I’m done with you! He’ll be in the same place I left him. Better be, anyway, tied the little knots good and tight if you ask me. Might not want to try that yourself, mind you, all the bondage and the ropes and the knotting and stuff. Didn’t seem to like it much, can’t imagine why, but it can’t _matter_ anyway, Lyssie, ‘cause I’m here to talk about _you_ , not _him_!” She elbows Lyssa in the arm, and for a second time, Ellinor has to hold back a laugh.

“Well I don’t—I’ve already told you,” Lyssa groans, pressing a hand to her forehead. “I’ve told you everything I know.”

“Are you _sure_ about that, Lyssa?” Ellinor asks her, unable to hold back any longer, only barely suppressing a chuckle.

Lyssa gapes at her. The elf shoots her a curious look, but only for a moment—brows furrowed, grin sly.

“Are you—” Lyssa sputters. “Is she one of your—do you _know_ her, Ellie? Is she one of your _friends_?”

The elf gives her the smallest of shrugs—if Ellinor had blinked, she might have missed it. “Yes,” she lies. _Through the teeth_. “She’s a friend—”

“I _am_ a ‘friend,’” the elf agrees.

“—and my _friend_ and I need to be on our way now.”

“Swift!” Varric calls, and Ellinor waves a hand at him.

“Like I said.”

She puts a hand on the elf’s shoulder, gripping as tightly as she can without hurting her, and offers a small curtsy to Lyssa—stiff, shallow, an insult if anything, she’s got her bearings back, regained her composure, _she will not take me now_. “A pleasure, Lyssa,” she says, words anything _but_ , more like ice, more like venom. She pulls the elf away, breathing deeper, easier, with every step they take from her sister, and it’s only when she’s rejoined their group that she hears her call back once more.

“Don’t forget about her, Ellie!”

She does not answer.

She does not turn back.

Instead, she releases her grip on the elf, setting her free before the rest of her companions. Solas and Varric raise their eyebrows expectantly; Cassandra only frowns, apparently neither surprised nor pleased. “Name?” Ellinor asks simply, and the elf is not afraid. No. She _grins_.

“Sera,” she replies, extending a hand—one Ellinor does not take. “And yours is ‘Ellie,’ then?”

Varric snorts, and Ellinor shoots him a glare. “It’s ‘Ellinor,’” she snaps. “Only my family calls me ‘Ellie.’”

Sera grins wider now, if that’s even possible. “Family, then?” she asks, tilting her head back to where she’d spoken with Lyssa. Ellinor nods, and the little elf cackles with laughter. “So Lady Lyssie’s got family in high places. Places higher than her. Places higher than that stick up her arse.” She giggles, a low, rapid laugh that makes Cassandra close her eyes in annoyance. “S’interesting, y’know, because here you are, fighting with little Lyssa LeClaire, little Lyssa Le- _bit-of-a-prick_ , and I only wanted to jump in because it looked like _fun!_ She doesn’t owe me information anymore, got that bit about Pel Harmond ages ago. It was more of a pleasure visit, yeah? Just got to keep her in line from time to time. Lasso the Lyssa, ‘f you know what I mean.”

Ellinor raises her eyebrows, shrugs. “I think...I’m trying to know what you mean, anyway. Maker, you talk fast.”

“And you talk slow... _Ellie_ ,” she winks.

“Herald,” Cassandra clears her throat, and Ellinor can hear the eye roll in her tone. “We _do_ have a prior commitment, if you haven’t forgotten.”

“Yes,” Ellinor nods, _Madame de Fer’s_ , and she looks back at Sera. “Listen, would you like to—”

“Herald…” Cassandra warns, but she pays her no mind.

“Would you like to come along with us?”

Sera looks at Cassandra quickly—at the Inquisition insignia on her armor, no doubt—and shakes her blonde bangs out of her eyes. She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t need to; Ellinor knows it’s a _yes_ as soon as she breaks into another wicked smile, her previous attempt at setting her bangs right undone almost instantly by the near-manic giggle she lets out just seconds later. “You’re that bad ‘round big people you’re related to?” she asks with a devilish grin, and Ellinor can’t help but smile back, nod.

 _If you knew the “big people” I’m related to..._ she wants to say, but Sera’s already skipped ahead of all of them, cartwheeling over the cobblestone and, somewhat miraculously, failing to lose a single arrow from her quiver as she does so.

“Love to see what you can do with the ones who aren’t in your family, yeah?” she calls out, completely unsure of where they’re all going and yet somehow leading the way. “Count me in, then!”

* * *

_Cullen,_

_Our visit to Val Royeaux has been a partial success. We ran into the Lord Seeker upon our arrival. I will discuss this more when all of us meet on our return. Fortunately, the Herald had little trouble persuading Madame de Fer to join the Inquisition. Unfortunately, she also had little trouble recruiting an elven girl from the city. She is a mischievous thing and I am not sure what to make of her. Both accompany us back to Haven now._

_Cassandra_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot put into words how excited I've been to add Sera into this, but I had to wait until the right time! She's so much fun to write.


	7. Seeking Answers

They return to Haven days later and in the morning, early, before sunrise; they’d ridden all night just to get back in good time. Few in the little town are up and about on their arrival. Solas departs from them wordlessly when the reach the gates; Varric follows close behind muttering something about _catching a few winks before the tavern opens_ and Cassandra marches ever-determined toward Cullen’s tent, where the glow and flicker of candlelight signal the commander is already— _or still_ , Ellinor considers—awake. She herself continues onward without stopping, pointing Vivienne toward the Chantry; the knight enchanter breathes a sigh of relief at the promise of finding Josephine there— _a darling woman, Lady Montilyet_ , she says, she knows of her already and _I could use a hot cup of tea and a place to dry my shoes_ —beginning up the hill on her own.

Sera’s hardly stopped to take a breath since their return, darting about and kicking around in the snow and simultaneously complaining about the cold _and_ making snow angels in nothing but the thin clothes she’s worn since departing from Val Royeaux. “Tavern’s closed?” she asks Ellinor, noting Varric earlier comment, and Ellinor nods.

“Bit of a sleepy town then, yeah?” she giggles.

Ellinor looks about them. Not a single cabin in sight offers any hint of candlelight, and for now, the stars still shine brightly in the sky above them. “It’s nighttime,” she says slowly. “So yes.”

“I’m _joking_ , Ellie, don’t pull a boring Lady Lyssie on me. It’s a _joke_.”

She does her best to crack a smile, but the journey has been long, the days tiring. “You’re welcome to stay in my cabin until the tavern opens, if you’d like,” she offers. “I’m not tired and I have work to do anyway, so I don’t mind if you use my b—”

“Ah, great, sleepover at Ellie’s!” Sera says with a spring in her step, and Ellinor has to restrain herself from rolling her eyes at the nickname.

 _It’s beginning to stick_ , she thinks, a little annoyed, but a smaller voice inside her isn’t so sure. _It’s already stuck_.

“If you’d told me sooner I could’ve made cookies,” Sera continues amicably. “They’d probably’ve turned out a bit crispy crunchy anyway what with the campfire cooking and the shitty ingredients and all but I—”

“It’s all right, Sera,” Ellinor answers with a tired sigh as she unlocks the door to the cabin. “Maybe next time.”

It doesn’t take long for her to set her up with a few blankets and a change of clothes, but it’s long enough for the elf to etch a number of crude drawings with her fingertip into the frost that’s built up over her window panes. She almost tells her to stop. Almost. But something inside her cracks.

Instead, she laughs. For the first time in what feels like a very long time, she genuinely laughs.

“I knew the room needed a bit of something extra,” she says, putting her hands on her hips and admiring the work. A split second look of surprise crosses Sera’s face, but it’s quickly replaced by her usual grin.

“Like it?” she asks, and Ellinor nods, pulling her gloves back on to leave. “I can draw more, if you like. Tits or dicks?”

Ellinor snorts. “Surprise me.”

The sky is pink to the east, _nearly dawn_ , she thinks, and she considers making for the Chantry next—Josephine will be awake now, anyway, with Vivienne having gone up earlier. But something pulls her outward instead, out past the inner gate and down to the training grounds as she remembers Cassandra’s determined march toward Cullen’s tent, the way her lips had pursed in a straight line and the eerie glow of candlelight against the countless unlit tents scattered in the near-morning darkness.

 _She’s still there_ , she notes when she nears the tent, the sounds of the clear, strong Nevarran accent signaling the Seekers presence, intermingled with one weaker, lower, Fereldan. Cullen.

“—ran into her _sister_ there.” Ellinor’s ears perk up at Cassandra’s words. “It was quite the affair. I did not think it appropriate to interfere.”

“Well,” Cullen says. His voice is strained. Quieter than usual, not gruff as it is when he speaks to his recruits. When he speaks to _her_. “I’m sorry, which one? I thought Leliana had said she had few, I can’t...I don’t really keep track of her personal—”

“It was not the templar, if that is what you are asking.”

“I wasn’t—that’s not what I was asking, no. Anyway. But there _were_ templars present? I read your letter, I saw that there had been some sort of altercation. Whatever it was, it didn’t sound good.”

“It was the Lord Seeker,” Cassandra says, her voice dripping with a distaste Ellinor hasn’t heard since she’d been imprisoned for the Conclave incident. Were the conversation not so solemn, she might have thought it refreshing to finally her her disdain directed at someone other than her. “He seems to have other plans for whatever templars might have helped us. If she wishes to go forward with the mages—”

“She’s made it quite obvious that’s her intent, yes—”

“—then we will need to move quickly.” It’s silent for a moment, and still Ellinor waits, listens, as though her feet are frozen into the snow she stands in. “She knows this,” Cassandra continues quietly. “She is not the inept and unqualified leader I think you want her to be, Cullen.”

She can _feel_ her face grow hot with contempt, her fists clench. Only the thin leather of her gloves protect her palms from her nails digging right through, and her breath catches in her throat, listening. Waiting. But for a long moment, the only sounds around her are the soft breeze over the frozen pond, the distant crackle of a fire somewhere in the camp.

“I don’t want her to fail,” he says quietly, _finally_ , and yet she doesn’t believe him for a second.

_But does Cassandra?_

She doesn’t answer him, not directly. “I question her choices and her priorities myself sometimes,” she says slowly, collected, and Ellinor grits her teeth. “Allying with the mages. Inviting the elven girl—Sera—to the Inquisition on a whim and with no prior knowledge of her. The way she cannot escape her past and her family. But I believe that she will do what is right and that she will succeed in it. She has a way with people and with words that is invaluable—”

“—to some, maybe,” he mutters, and Cassandra raises her voice.

“How she interacts with _you_ and anyone she distrusts is another matter and not my point of conversation, Cullen,” she says tersely. “But you are not an unintelligent man. You have read her reports— _my_ reports. You know the things she has done for the people in the Hinterlands. The farmers, the townsfolk. The people at the Crossroads. She is doing good things for good people who—”

“I know, Cassandra,” he says quietly. _Pained_ , Ellinor might guess, and she cannot tell if it is the subject matter or something else that bothers him so much. “I know.”

They don’t speak again for some time, and Ellinor is out of logical reasons _not_ to turn back, retreat without a trace and yet still she does not move. She can’t. She listens, though for several moments there are only sounds of shuffling papers, quill on parchment.

“The reason I came here,” Cassandra sighs, long, slow, resigned and yet not defeated, “was to ask _why_ in Andraste’s name you are awake at this hour.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” Cullen says dismissively, without missing a beat. Cassandra huffs her disapproval—a sound Ellinor is beginning to learn all too well herself.

“Well, you do not seem as though you are trying very hard.”

There’s a pause, again, and still Ellinor’s curiosity outweighs her logic, her respect, any regard she may have for either of their privacy. She should feel guilty. She should feel bad. She only feels intrigued, curious, hungry to know more even knowing deep down that it’s wrong.

“It’s always the same,” he mutters. “And time wasted trying to ignore it or simply fall back asleep is time that could be spent getting work done, planning, and...well, anyway, it’s hardly cause for—”

“I do not think losing an entire night of sleep is ‘hardly cause for concern,’ Cullen,” Cassandra interrupts him, terse and firm.

“Well I urge you not to worry, Cassandra,” he replies, low and defensive. “I will not let it get in the way of my duties. Furthermore, I will not give _her_ any reason to doubt me more than she already does.”

 _Her_ , she thinks, he says it with such disdain and yet _the only thing I doubt in you is your faith in me_ is her first instinct but even as she thinks it she knows it is a lie; she doubts the templars and his attitude and his past and the way he has never once looked upon her with a kind eye, the way instructs his troops with a guiding hand on some mornings and with a biting wrath on others, the way he enters meetings with red eyes and shaking hands and—

“You misunderstand me,” Cassandra tells him, and her tone is different now, a rare sense of kindness and warmth. “I am not doubting you, and I am not doubting your abilities to serve the Inquisition. I merely caution you, as a friend. It would make me feel more at ease to know you are taking care of yourself.”

“I’m trying,” he argues, _always the first instinct_.

“You are,” Cassandra agrees, “but you could do—”

“Yes,” he interrupts her, voice nearly broken and with an uncertainty Ellinor has never heard in him before, one that makes her feel the cold around her, an unease that had been absent moments earlier. He clears his throat, and when he speaks again, he is defeated. Quiet.

“I could do better.”

* * *

_Dorian,_

_Though our previous meeting was brief, I would like to reassure you of my intent on returning. I understand the situation in Redcliffe grows dire. I will select the most capable and trustworthy of my companions to accompany me to the city. We leave tomorrow at dawn. Expect us soon, but until then, hold strong._

_Faithfully,_

_E. Trevelyan_

* * *

“Cassandra will be coming, of course,” Ellinor begins, taking a long sip of the tea she’d made for Josephine that morning. Rosehips purchased in Val Royeaux, dried apple, honeycomb—the Hinterlands were full of it, and she didn’t mind dodging the bees and the bears—sweet and delicate, not unlike the ambassador herself. She’s grown accustomed to spending mornings in Josephine’s office--when she was in Haven, anyway, which seemed to be less and less all the time. “And Vivienne has already expressed an interest in the mages there—not the most positive interest, but still—so I think she should probably come too. And Sera.”

Josephine coughs, loudly at first, surprised, but quickly covers her mouth with her hand and carefully returns her teacup to its saucer. “Sera?” she repeats, and Ellinor nods. “Are you quite sure that is...wise?”

“I’m sure. I’ve never seen someone so innovative with a bow,” she comments. “She has no technique whatsoever, it’s excellent. She’ll be invaluable to us.”

The ambassador raises her eyebrows, tilts her head thoughtfully. “I do not doubt you,” she reasons, genuinely. “But Cassandra has had some...misgivings...about her.”

“Does she?” Ellinor asks, taking another sip, thinking back to the conversation from the night before. She’d seemed more supportive, then, in her absence. But the pushback doesn’t surprise her. She’s far too confidence, too outspoken to give in to Ellinor’s decisions with no comment, and for that, she respects her. “Misgivings I’m sure Leliana and Commander Cullen share.”

“Actually, Leliana finds her an asset to the Inquisition as well,” Josephine points out. “She and her…‘friends,’ she calls them?” Ellinor nods. “She and her friends have eyes and ears all over Thedas. Leliana has assured us that she is somebody we want on our side. But, you are right. Cullen does not have very much trust in her.”

“Who _does_ he trust?” she snorts, but even as she says it, she almost feels a tinge of regret. Almost. She considers asking Josephine if she knows anything of Cullen’s health, and yet _no, she wouldn’t know_ , and besides, Josephine is far from a gossip. Too kind, too well intended.

The ambassador only shrugs in return. “What is it that you like about her?” she asks. It’s not an accusatory question. Merely curious.

Ellinor shrugs, shakes her head. _Sera’s not like the rest_ , is the best way to say it—in fact, she was probably the only _good_ thing to come out of their visit to Val Royeaux, but she swallows, exhales, puts down her tea. “She makes me laugh,” she says truthfully. “She’s odd—she takes nothing seriously, which could be a bad thing, of course, but...she expects nothing of me. Not like the rest of—” She stops herself when she meets Josephine’s thoughtful gaze. “I don’t mean _you_ , Josie,” she backtracks, “but everyone—so many people—”

The ambassador shakes her head kindly. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me, Ellinor,” she says with a warm smile. “I understand.”

She returns her smile gratefully. “I should be going, anyway,” she says, standing. “Lots to prepare for. And—oh, I hate to ask, but—”

“Anything,” she answers warmly.

She beams. “You’re too good to me, Josie,” she says softly. “Would you mind feeding the cat again?”

Josephine grins. “I can, if I need to,” she replies. “Although I had some help while you were in Orlais.”

“Did you?”

She nods solemnly. “I caught Cullen slipping him some scraps under the dinner table on more than one occasion.”

* * *

The Hinterlands, as it turns out, is an excellent place to bring Sera. The vast hills and seemingly endless stretches of warm grass are a perfect match for her boundless energy. It rarely seems as though she’s traveling _with_ them and yet the assistance she’s provided them is undeniable—too many times she’s disappeared from their group only to circle back a half hour later in time for Cassandra to chastise her and for Vivienne to roll her eyes at her and for her to bicker back at them until they would inevitably pass a group of arrow-pierced templars or apostates on their path and she would flash them a shit-eating grin, a pair of middle fingers, a pointed “you’re welcome, then,” before running off ahead once more.

“Grateful,” truly, would understate Ellinor’s attitude toward her.

And when they break to make camp and eat, even Cassandra can’t deny it’s the best dinner they’ve ever had on the road—two wild geese, killed cleanly with a single arrow each. No broken crossbow bolts to pull as they often had when Varric hunted dinner, no days and days of nothing but fish like they ate when Blackwall came along with them. No overzealously singed rabbit that they sometimes stomached when it was Solas’s turn to cook.

“’Course you two don’t complain once I’ve got you something good to eat,” Sera mutters once everyone’s quieted down, finishing their dinner.

“I have no complaints now that I’ve inspected it for any sign of rashvine or poison,” Vivienne says simply.

“Oh _please_ ,” Ellinor sighs. “No more bickering. Not until...tomorrow, at least.”

“I _saw_ her picking rashvine earlier—”

“I don’t need your help, _Ellie_ ,” Sera huffs, but she grants her a wink nonetheless. Vivienne only shoots her a short _hmph_.

They don’t argue anymore.

But when they pitch their tents for the night, Vivienne makes sure to choose the spot exactly opposite the fire from Sera’s, about as far away from her as she can get without leaving the campsite entirely. “You cannot _make_ two people get along, darling,” she whispers to Ellinor before disappearing into her tent.

 _Believe me_ , she thinks. _I know._

Cassandra draws the first watch. It’s not long before Sera makes her way to her own tent, too— _so that energy of hers_ does _have its limits_ —and in spite of the clear skies above them, the crisp smell of pine and grass and earth and the lulling sounds of a babbling brook not far from there, Ellinor cannot bring herself to go to sleep. Not yet. And so she sits by the fire, toeing a small notch into the dirt with the tip of her boot and watching the flames burn low, low, lower until Cassandra crosses over and tosses another log on.

“Restless?” she asks her, and she looks up, shrugs. Like Sera, the Seeker’s energy at times seems endless. Not in the same way, never hyperactive, fast and swift and unpredictable. But she is tireless. Unyielding. Strong.

“Just thinking,” she replies, looking back to two nights before, pained voices and tired words and _“I will not give_ her _any reason to doubt me.”_

_My doubt is not unfounded._

“Of?”

She shrugs again. “Nothing.”

“Very well, then.” The Seeker turns to leave, make her rounds about the campsite once more. She will miss her chance if she does not ask now.

“Cassandra?” she says abruptly, and she turns again, raises her eyebrows questioningly. “What’s wrong with Cullen?”

She narrows her eyes at her now. “What are you implying, Herald?”

She’s spoken too soon. She knows it. _It’s not my place to ask_ , and _it wasn’t my conversation to overhear_ , and it’s unprofessional, unkind, unlike her, to be frank. But she cannot turn back now. She clears her throat. “What I mean to say is,” she clarifies, feigning strength, certainty, confidence in her words, “he seems unwell sometimes. I only wondered—”

“If you have concerns over the state of Cullen’s health, I suggest you take it up with him yourself,” she says coldly. “Maker knows the two of you could benefit from a civil conversation for once.”

 _Very well,_ Ellinor thinks, letting Cassandra turn promptly and disappear without further argument. She walks with conviction. With anger.

_Some things are meant to go unanswered._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more update before the holiday, but hopefully not the last of 2018! :)


	8. In the Village

_Ellinor,_

_We’re pleased to hear that you’ve successfully forged an alliance with the mages in Redcliffe, although your letter was unclear, and I don’t quite understand what transpired in the city. Whoever these “Venatori” are, they are clearly a force to be reckoned with and not to be taken lightly. I have scouts looking into Tevinter intelligence as I write this, but in the meantime, be wary of this Master Pavus you speak of, and rest assured we will have questions for him upon your return._

_Please send my regards to King Alistair. He is a dear friend, and it’s been some time since we’ve last seen each other._

_—L_

* * *

There’s an evening chill in the air as they walk the little marketplace in Redcliffe Village, and even at a safe distance from the docks, the lake breeze sends a biting mist toward the group. _Rain’s coming_ , the scent hangs about them thick and earthy and foreboding, and they are tired, weary. Ellinor and Sera each boast a few shallow cuts, Vivienne a minor burn on one arm. Even Cassandra admits to a couple bruises when Ellinor asks her. Only their newest companion seems to be unhindered, at least physically—miraculously unscathed by blade and spell alike, robes and cloak absent of any bloodstains, not a single hair out of place either atop his head or on his mustache, and yet his complaints seem wounded enough.

“Blasted southern weather,” Dorian mutters, wrapping his cloak tighter around him, and Ellinor takes a deep breath.

_We’re all tired_ , she reminds herself; she knows the magister they’d faced in Redcliffe Castle had been Dorian’s friend once and she’s sympathetic to the complexity of their relationship, the loss he must feel—she _is_ —and yet every muttered comment from him and every annoyed grunt from Cassandra and every haughty sigh from Vivienne brings her one step closer to snapping.

Sera cackles at him, kicking a loose pebble over the cobblestone path. “You think this is bad?” she asks Dorian. “Wait ‘til you see the blizzardy little place Ellie’s got us holed up in! Freeze your nips right off, if you don’t—”

_Enough._ Ellinor whips around to face the two of them. “Sera,” she says through gritted teeth, trying to collect herself. “I didn’t _pick_ Haven. I _ended up_ in Haven. If it’s not to your liking, you’re welcome to take it up with Cassandra, who’s far more likely responsible for the Inquisition’s whereabouts than I am.”

Sera wrinkles her nose at her. “Well, look who’s feeling snippity? Just because King Carrot Top wasn’t nice to you, doesn’t mean—”

“ _Sera_ ,” Cassandra scolds her, but she continues.

“No, really! Ellie’s all pissy with us because Big Fereldan King’s all pissy with her because all the scary mages were like _flash flash_ , got your castle! and fucking around with the time and screwing us all over so now we’re all in snappy moods and for what? S’all gone to shit anyway, if you ask me.”

Ellinor sighs, long, slow, closes her eyes. It’s beginning to get dark now anyway and they’ve all been around each other too long— _far_ too long, if she considers the time traveling, though she still can’t _quite_ wrap her mind around it—and she’s tired. _We all are._ When she opens her eyes again, Sera’s still standing before her, hands on her hips, tapping her foot. _Waiting for an apology._

“Well, aren’t we a jolly bunch?” Dorian mutters.

“ _Enough._ ” She drops her pack to the ground and retrieves her coin purse, taking another deep breath, composing herself. “Sera,” she starts, and the elf raises her eyebrows expectantly. “I’m sorry for snapping at you.” She tosses her a few silvers. “Now go and get those arrows you needed.”

She nods, a truce, and hops off to the fletcher.

“Cassandra, you said you needed your shield repaired…?”

“It’s already at the smithy,” the Seeker confirms. “It will be ready before we leave tomorrow.”

“Good,” she replies; for all of Cassandra’s stubbornness, she is without a doubt the most responsible of their group. “Vivienne, I saw an alchemist on the other side of the square, if you needed—”

“Yes, I’d noticed her as well. Her wares leave something to be desired, no doubt, but—”

“Vivienne,” she warns, lowering her voice, a quick glance on either side of them, “what did I say about insulting the Fereldans?”

The mage only smirks at her. “My _dear_ ,” she tuts. “Is that not what _you_ do every day among your council?” Ellinor opens her mouth, but the action is in vain. The day has been long, and she has no retort this time. “Very well. I shall go and restock what I can.”

She departs with a _swish_ of her robes, leaving her with only Cassandra and Dorian. _Is it that obvious?_ she wants to ask, but Cassandra is Cullen’s _friend_ and she’d no doubt take sides and Dorian, knowing little if anything of the Inquisition and its members, wouldn’t have any idea of what had just transpired and furthermore wouldn’t care. Still, Vivienne’s comments leave a bitter taste in her mouth—for someone who’s spent so little time with them in Haven to notice the tension between herself and the commander meant one of two things: that she’d made a keen observation of her interactions, or lack thereof, with him, or simply that their animosity was the talk of the Inquisition.

Neither thought sat well with her.

And so she continues on, wordlessly, Cassandra and Dorian following in her wake. Without the castle to take up, a number of mages have camped out in the village—some in the old inn, if they were lucky, others on the outskirts of town, and still more about the marketplace, conversing or mulling over the merchant carts or simply sitting idle, resting for what may be their last chance in quite some time. _Apostates_ , she thinks, almost fondly, as the three of them walk amongst them. They’re all clad in different colored robes of no unified fabric, some in plaidweave or cotton or a few luckier ones in velveteen, even. No Circle to hold them back. No templars to keep them in check. Not anymore.

_Not if I can help it._

A few of them nod to her, a few offer a short _Herald_ as she passes them by; some smile at her, some _thank_ her but for the first time, she feels like she’s earned it. Like she’s done something worthwhile and valuable and deserving of their praise—not at all the way she feels when the people in Haven throw themselves before her calling her _Your Worship_ all for something she had no control over. This is different.

_This is good_.

“So it’s off to the mountains at dawn, then?” asks Dorian, stretching his arms, feigning boredom.

Ellinor nods. “We’ve done all we can here. And there’s no chance I’m letting any of the new mages arrive in Haven before _we_ do. There are preparations to be made, plans to think about. Training to oversee. Recruit integration to go over.”

“And plenty of hard feelings to quell,” he adds, a twinkle of a tease in his eyes. For the second time that night, she feels a scandalized look wash over her face, and he chuckles at her. Even Cassandra snorts a laugh. “Well,” he continues, “don’t pretend magic and templars and apostates aren’t at the height of controversy these days. He smooths his mustache with his thumb and forefinger, smirking. “I daresay you’d be telling quite the lie if you said the entirety of the Inquisition was supportive of the alliance you’ve made here.”

“And so I would be,” Ellinor huffs in agreement. “But I think you’ll find I’m not one to lose sleep over the opposing opinion.”

Sera practically materializes beside her—she has a tendency to sneak up, Ellinor has noticed. “Dunno,” she reasons, biting into a brick of toffee bigger than her hand. “You certainly lose sleep over _something_.”

“Sera!”

“What?” she replies, mouth full of toffee. “You’re never in your cabin! S’practically _my_ cabin now. If all the big people weren’t so awed shitless over you, I’d think you were screwing with someone, but that’s obviously not the— _mmph_ —”

“Thanks, Sera,” she mutters, having shoved the bar of toffee back into the elf’s mouth. “You know, some of us _work_ sometimes. Some of us have things to do other than pranking innocent townspeople and _buying candy with money we were supposed to be spending on arrows_. Hm?”

She spits bits of toffee on the ground before sticking her tongue out at her. “Thought you were done being pissy, Ellie,” she says with a feigned pout. “And I _did_ buy arrows, I’ll have you know. Just happened to stop by the confectioner on the way back.”

* * *

_Leliana,_

_Dorian’s all right. You can question him all you like, but he’s about as friendly with the Venatori as I am, after what happened. We leave for Haven at sunrise. I’ll explain more when we’re back._

_—Ellinor_

_P.S. I would have liked to “send your regards” to the king, but he seemed to be in a foul mood and nearly more grateful to see me leave the castle than to see the city restored to peace. I’m rather surprised you two are friends._

_P.P.S. Who is this “we” you speak of when you say that you’re glad of our alliance with the mages? Surely, you mean only you and Josie. I’m more than aware of Commander Cullen’s feelings on this. “Pleased” is not the word I would use to describe them._

* * *

The sun is bright the next morning, and any chance of rain from the day before seems to have dissipated by the time they’ve packed up at the inn. She’s grateful for the warmer weather, at any rate— _no complaints today_ , she hopes silently—but what’s more is that they’re better rested, better fed, in better spirits, any injuries sustained the day before more or less healed up. There’s little room or reason for argument within their group today, and that’s how she’d prefer it remain for their trip back to Haven.

Unfortunately, the fragile state of peace she’s found this morning doesn’t seem to stretch beyond her companions, and when they make toward the village gates—waving off a murmured _thank you, Herald_ , and _see you in Haven!_ and _Maker bless you!_ —any sense of serenity disappears in a thunder of nearby raised voices, harsh shouting from across the marketplace.

“—out of here!” one of the merchants yells, and at once, Cassandra places an instinctive hand upon the hilt of her sword, and Sera one to the quiver over her shoulder. “I’m not selling to you or him or any of your people!”

“Always entertaining, these Fereldans,” Dorian remarks, and Vivienne gives him a sugared laugh.

Ellinor doesn’t.

And when she eyes the merchant in question, face growing warm with contempt, Dorian shifts uncomfortably behind her. “Do you think we should—” he starts, but Ellinor’s already left them behind her.

“Yes,” she mutters to herself as she strides purposely toward the commotion. “I do.”

Any shouting, any incoherent arguments are silenced on her arrival and she stands before the four figures—one, a local farm vendor she’d seen selling fruits the day before, and three mages—commanding attention and quiet in spite of her short stature, in spite of the way each stood nearly ten inches taller than her at least.

“May I ask what’s going on here?” she begins, cool, collected, and the vendor’s eyes widen.

“Herald!” he says, clasping his hands first in front of himself, then behind his back, and then in front of him once more.

_Coward_.

“These—these men—they...I was only trying to close up shop, you see.” He gestures wildly before him, to the mages. “And these _apostates_ wouldn’t—”

“You were closing?” Ellinor repeats after him, and he nods fervently.

_Liar_.

“In the early morning?”

“He was _not_ —” one of the mages pipes up, and she raises her hand, never losing eye contact with the merchant, _I know_.

“Yes, well—” he stammers. “They...listen, these are _apostates_.” Again, he spits the word, and she can feel a fire grow in her stomach.

_Say it_ , she dares him, silently. _Do it_.

The merchant’s face grows ever more crimson, and if she’s looking hard enough, she can spot a droplet of sweat on his brow.

_Good. Let him fear._

“Herald,” he begins again. “I just...I simply can’t sell to them. These mages—”

“These _mages_ ,” she interrupts him, cold, venomous, never once raising her voice although her words are daggers of their own, “are a part of and are therefore protected by the Inquisition. So if you will not sell to them, then I suggest you offer them the goods you have and return on home to your farm.”

The color drains from his face. “But...Herald, I—”

“I would do as she says, if I were you” Cassandra growls. She hadn’t even noticed her come up behind her, but she’s grateful, if surprised, for her words.

“But…” he stutters, _still_ , “Herald, my own _sister_ is a templar, I—”

“As is mine,” she bites, still as a predator ready to spring on its prey. “Unlike you, however, I don’t seem to own a successful vegetable farm in the hills outside Redcliffe. It would be a shame if that were added to the list of things you have in common with me. Wouldn’t it?”

He swallows. “I...I...yes,” he mumbles. “Yes, I…” Leaving his thought unfinished, he hastily packs up his cashbox and retreats from the stall, disappearing out toward the village gates.

“Shit,” says one of the mages—the only one not apparently speechless. He grins at her. “That was...shit, that was—thank you. Really.” The others nod in agreement, _thank you_ , but she only smiles back at them, quickly, not lingering, as Dorian joins Cassandra behind her.

“Have at it,” she answers, motioning the mages towards the vegetables and cheeses left on the cart before turning to Cassandra. “Thank you,” she says, quietly. “I can’t say I really expected your support.”

She doesn’t smile back at her. But she doesn’t bear her usual tight-lipped frown, either. “You should know by now that I do not need to agree with you to support you, Lady Trevelyan,” she says simply.

“‘Trevelyan’?” the mage asks, spinning around to face her, and Ellinor nods slowly. Curiously. “I know a Trevelyan. Looks a bit like you, too.”

_Bryony_ , she thinks, silently cursing the merchant for ever bringing her to mind in the first place. They did look alike, after all; growing up, anyone who caught them in a rare moment of each other’s presence would say they looked so alike they could be twins. Ellinor had loathed them all for it, of course. She had a twin. And she could not be more different from her sister. “Look,” she says, regretting the ice in her voice as soon as the word leaves her mouth— _it’s certainly not_ his _fault_. “If you’ve ever been under my sister’s charge, you have my sympathies. She’s—”

“No,” he says, shaking his head, confused. “Not a _girl_ Trevelyan.”

Her heart stops, and _oh_ , if he can see the shock on her face, he doesn’t show it.

“Looks _just_ like you,” he continues. “Avery Trevelyan. Any relation?”

She can’t speak. She can barely breathe.

_Avery_.

“Ah. A family reunion, then?” Dorian chuckles tensely, and the mages before her look at her intently.

“You know him?” she manages, not answering their question if only for the pounding ache in her heart when her lungs finally recover, finally allow her to breathe once more.

The mage before her shrugs, nods. “Not well,” he says. “Only met him a couple weeks ago. You his family?”

She swallows. Hard. “His sister,” she says, and then, to distance herself from them all—from Reilly, from Lyssa, from Bryony—she takes a deep breath. “His twin sister.”

The mage grins. “Well, it doesn’t get much more ‘family’ than that, does it then?” he asks, and she wants to smile back, wants to laugh, _yes_ , but her rapid heartbeat won’t rest and she has to ask.

“Is he here? In Redcliffe?”

“Herald,” Cassandra starts, “we’re due back in Haven by—”

“ _Is he here_?” she repeats, and the mage shakes his head.

“No,” he says, and her heart sinks, “not now, anyway. But I don’t think he’s far—was heading south, last I heard, for a time. Took one look at everything going on in Redcliffe and didn’t want any part of it. Said he’d return later when things calmed down. But—”

He looks her up and down; _he sees me_ , she thinks, for every attempt she made at hiding her feelings, today, _now_ , she failed. _He sees_.

“But,” he continues, reassuringly, “that was a couple weeks ago. He knows where we are. He could be back any day now. Catch the tail end of us all on the move. I could...deliver a message, if you’d like? If I see him.”

“Would you?” she asks, allowing herself a flicker of hope, of anything. _I’ve come so far to find him_ , she thinks. _And he’s so close_. And all the letters she’s written him—every single one—are all tucked away in her cabin; she could curse herself for not carrying them with her, for not having them to pass along when the chance came.

The mage nods at her.

“Tell him—” she starts. “Tell him I’m in Haven. Tell him, ‘Ell’s in Haven.’ Just east along the lake, just up in the mountains.”

“Will do, Herald,” he says. “I won’t forget. And we won’t forget your kindness here, either.”

The other two mages murmur their agreement, and she hardly has a chance to say _no, thank_ you _,_ barely even _goodbye_ , because Cassandra is calling to her and it’s time to leave and if they don’t head back now, Fiona will get there before them and there won’t be time to prepare and they must _hurry_ , but she can’t find it in her to care. Not today. Not just now. Because _Avery is here_ , he’s in Ferelden, and soon, he’ll know exactly where to meet her.

Perhaps she never meant to find him, anyway. Perhaps he was meant to find her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last update of the year! See you all in 2019.


	9. Transfigurations

“Burn it.”

Josephine stands before her in the war room, taken aback— _and maybe she has every right to be_ —at Ellinor’s answer, hand still outstretched, presenting a delicate cream envelope inscribed with Lyssa’s handwriting, seal still unbroken, contents untouched.

Their return from Redcliffe had been blessedly uneventful, no rain or snow to slow them down, and as expected, Fiona’s mages arrived only shortly after they had. She’d little time to allow Dorian to settle comfortably but he and Vivienne had been amicable enough on the road and Ellinor could have kissed her when they’d returned home and Vivienne said _you’re tired, my dear, allow me to show him around_ , leaving her only with Cassandra, who quickly took her leave to speak with Leliana, and Sera, who parted ways shortly thereafter muttering something about _going to go look for your cat, Ellie_.

She’d had time to bathe, time to change from her still-bloodied clothes she’d worn since leaving Redcliffe Castle, time to eat a quick meal and sort the herbs and flowers she’d clipped along the roads of the Hinterlands and hang them to dry along the little fireplace in her cabin where Sera had eventually settled down, unwashed from her travels and still carrying her bow upon her back but smirking as she dangled a thick ribbon above the little black cat and letting it swat at it back and forth with its paws.

“Isn’t that the sash Vivienne uses to wear with her robes?” Ellinor had asked as she pulled dried herbs from their _last_ trip to the Hinterlands from where they hung along the mantle, sorting them carefully between toxins and healing plants and tying them into little bundles with twine.

“Nah,” Sera had answered, not bothering to look up, smirking still.

 _A lie_ , Ellinor had known but she chose to ignore it this time and when she’d finished sorting her herbs, she gathered her reports and pulled on her jacket. The sun was setting, and Josephine and the others would be waiting for her.

The bulk of their meeting had gone as expected, _but how did you_ travel _through_ time _?_ Cullen had asked more times than she could count, but he wasn’t alone; Josephine and even Leliana had asked as well, and it was all Ellinor and Cassandra and even Dorian, for the short time he stepped in to the meeting, could do to explain what had happened with patience and with care until finally Leliana said she understood and Josephine said she believed them and Cullen simply gave up and stopped asking for clarification.

And from time travel, they moved onto the mages—how many they should expect, how to train them, where to house them, _an alliance?!_ Cullen had thundered, and even then Ellinor had held her tongue, held her patience, let Cassandra explain simply that what was done was done and the mages were _not_ , as he had suggested many times previously, indebted to them but rather allied with them, and they continued onward in conversation, Cullen thick with indignation and Ellinor still and controlled, to further discuss the rift, the Breach, their plans, and finally when they’d finished, when Ellinor thought at last that she was free to return to her cabin and her fireplace and her bed and just get some _rest_ , Josephine held out the envelope to her, in handwriting she knew too well, and she said, _burn it._

“Ellinor…” Josephine says, kindly but firmly and still she does not reach for the letter, lets her stand there, holding it out, offering it to her. “It _is_ your sister. And we know that you have not had the best relationship with her, but it seems she is _trying_ to reach out to you. Could it hurt to—”

“Yes,” Ellinor cuts her off, “yes, it could. I know what she wants, and it’s a waste of my time and the Inquisition’s.” She pauses, looking at Leliana pointedly. “As we had established already.”

But she does not find the advocacy she seeks in the spymaster this time; rather, Leliana tilts her head thoughtfully, pensively. “It can’t quite be a waste of time if she is the one seeking you out, Ellinor,” she says, and Ellinor clenches her first, her jaw, lets the irritation bubble in her gut, but she doesn’t answer. “Lady LeClaire is an important woman in Val Royeaux, and a wealthy one at that. Perhaps if we heard what she has to say—”

“So you would use me for her wealth?” Ellinor asks in disbelief; it’s a concept she knows too well and her heartbeat quickens, and suddenly the room around her feels smaller. “For her titles?”

“A waste of time if you ask me,” Cullen mutters but it’s not in solidarity, not in her defense.

“Ellinor,” Josephine is quick to speak up. “That is not what Leliana means.”

“Then what _does_ she mean?” she asks, and the table doesn’t feel so round anymore; it’s not a council of five looking at one another but rather Josephine and Cullen and Leliana and Cassandra looking at her, and _I will not be used_ , she thinks, _not again_.

“I mean,” Leliana continues, “the fact remains that she’s your only family member willing to make contact with you.”

_That’s not true._

“It may be convenient for you to turn the other way, but some of us are very aware that your own parents have remained silent in the wake of the Conclave explosion. Your sister Reilly—no contact. The whereabouts of your eldest sister are unknown, your brother is nowhere to be found, and—”

“That’s not true,” Ellinor breathes, and for a moment, for a single, heavy moment, the space is thick with silence, leaving room only for the pounding in her heart and the ringing in her ears.

“Would you care to elaborate?” Leliana asks, and she thinks back instantly to her letter and their conversation weeks before; _I suggest you stop looking,_ she’d said, and she’d promised, _I can’t distract myself with matters of my family right now_ but _oh_ , Lyssa is an advantage and Avery is a distraction, _of course_.

“He’s in Ferelden,” Ellinor says, carefully, _do not let your voice shake_ , and clarifies, “I wasn’t looking for him. But one of the mages had caught my name and he _knew_ him, he’d been in Redcliffe just before we were and he’d traveled south but—”

“And where is he now?” Cullen asks, speaking clearly for the first time since the conversation had shifted.

“I don’t—” she starts, blinking, seeing the trap in his words but the room feels small and _I have no way out_. “I don’t know.”

“So he is not, then, among the mages we’ve allied ourselves with?”

 _“Allied_ ,” he says, “ _we._ ” As though moments before he hadn’t admonished the alliance but now he’s turned and the Inquisition mages are safe and Avery is the odd one out. _Dangerous_ , he could say to her, _apostate._

“Forgive me, Lady Trevelyan, but you’ve not seen him in…”

“Fourteen years,” Leliana offers, and Ellinor’s eyes bore into her, wounded, betrayed.

“Fourteen years,” Cullen continues. “If he is not in a Circle and he is not in the Inquisition, then who’s to say—”

“To say _what_ , Commander?” she asks, grinding her teeth and daring him to continue, taking her eyes from Leliana’s to glare at him instead but he does not waver, does not stop.

“Well, he was brought to the Circle after _hurting_ someone,” he continues, unperturbed, “and transferred merely two years later, correct? And you may look back on him fondly, but he shows all the signs of being quite a danger to—”

“How _dare_ you,” she whispers, and she’s _shaking_ now, and she can feel her control, her restraint burning and withering back like paper thrown into a roaring fire.

“Ellinor,” Josephine says softly, cautiously, eyes downcast and placing a gentle hand on hers but for once she rips it away, rejects her kindness as though she has any to spare, and stares only at Cullen before her, seething, aching, rabid.

“You don’t even know him,” she growls, and he glares back at her but _I will not stay quiet any longer_. “You weren’t there when my parents sent for the templars against my brother. Their _son_!” she spits, and her voice is raised now, she knows, and Josephine shies away to the corner as Cullen doesn’t budge from his position and _I will not hold myself back from you now_. “You weren’t there when my own sister came and ripped him away from me and forced him at the point of her sword out of his own home!”

“Ellinor,” Leliana says calmly, but she will not listen.

 _I will be heard_.

“You weren’t there when my parents took me by the burns on _my_ wrists as proof to take him away!” she yells. “He never _meant_ to hurt me, he would never hurt _anyone_ , and they—and you—you don’t even _know_ him!”

She glares at him, there are hot tears in threatening at her eyes but _I will not back down_ and _I will not look away_ but neither does he and he only looks back at her, shakes his head, exhales quietly.

“No,” he says, and still she stares him down.

 _Say it_.

“I wasn’t there.”

It’s all she needs.

“But you might as well have been,” she hisses, and Cassandra moves between them, but _I will not be quiet_. “How many children did you take from their parents in Ferelden?” she demands. “In Kirkwall? How many did you take from their siblings?”

“Ellinor—” Leliana tries, and someone grabs her by the wrist but she will not stop, and Cullen’s mouth is open and his eyes empty and he has no answers but she is not out of questions.

“How many—” she screams, and Leliana is pulling her away from him but Cullen does not move, does not flinch, does not defend himself when she tries to break the spymaster’s grip, “how many innocent people did you _imprison_ in your Circles? How many lives did you _ruin_?”

He opens his mouth again, but no words come. And he closes it.

“Answer me,” she demands. “Answer me!”

“Ellinor,” Josephine whispers; she’s not sure when the ambassador had ventured out of the corner of the room and to her side but at once her arm is around her, her fingers on her cheek, turning her, holding her. “Ellinor.” She nods to Cassandra, who takes a tight hold around Cullen’s wrist and leads him out of the room and still he has no answers, _nothing_ , she thinks even as Josephine pulls her into a hug, _coward_ , and Leliana follows behind them, and finally it’s just her and Josephine and she holds her tight in spite of her rage, in spite of her anger and her fire and her yelling and _herself_ and she whispers to her, “Ellinor, it’s okay.”

And finally, she lets herself cry.

* * *

_My dear Ellie,_

_It’s been some time since you were in Val Royeaux, and I’m sure you’re very busy working with the Inquisition. Rumor has it that you faced off against a dangerous Tevinter magister in Redcliffe in order to win the support of the renegade mages occupying southern Ferelden. I hope that’s not the case—I hate to think of you in any sort of trouble._

_Regardless, I write to you because I know you were upset when we last spoke. I wonder if you may have given any more thought to helping me find Bryony. I do worry for her so much, Ellie. I know you’re looking for Avery now, but she is our sister, and if I haven’t heard from her in this long, I’m certain she needs our help. Maybe if we could find her, she could help us locate Avery. After all, I’m sure she knows which Circle he was transferred to after leaving Ostwick. That could be a start. But we can’t ask her unless we find her. Please, think about this, and write soon._

_I do hope you’re well._

_With love,_

_Lyssa_

* * *

Bryony does not fight back when Ellinor hits her. She is nineteen and Ellinor is twelve and she is armed and Ellinor is bare-fisted and she boasts her templar mail while Ellinor wears her singed dress, tattered from her elbows down and baring the raw red burns along her wrists and forearms and Ellinor screams at her, _give him back!_ and she answers with nothing and of the four sisters, their parents had always said Bryony and Ellinor looked most alike and this night, Ellinor does her best to create a distance more visible than unseen animosity she felt—a bloodied lip, a black eye if she’s hit her hard enough—but Bryony does not fight back, and her parents shout at her, and Lyssa and Reilly say nothing just like they said nothing when the templars with Bryony took Avery by the arms and pulled him, heels dragging along the stone floor of the hall, out of the house. The remaining templars wait instead as Bryony stands before her, stone-faced with no emotion, not anger or contempt or satisfaction even as Ellinor screams at her and pulls her hair and hits her and she does not fight back, merely holds out her arms against the onslaught of blows as Ellinor had held out her arms against Avery’s magic and _it did not protect me but at least he never meant it_. She _wants_ to hurt Bryony, she might kill her if she could but at last Bryony raises a hand to the templars that work with her, a signal, and they pull Ellinor back by the arms and she shrieks when the cool metal of their gauntlets sinks into the burns on her arms and they drop her like a ragdoll and let her fall to the floor and Bryony nods to their parents, nods to Lyssa and Reilly, and they are gone. A door slammed into the darkness behind them. A spattering of hooves digging hard into the dirt as they ride away. An echo of a once-was presence as they take her brother to the Circle.

When they leave, she finds she has no more voice left to scream. So she cries. And her mother says _behave yourself, Ellinor_ , gravely and quietly as though she’s only a babe who’s thrown a tantrum in the marketplace and her father growls _that’s enough, Ellinor!_ and Lyssa and Reilly say nothing, always nothing, and Ellinor could hurt them and scream at them and tell them _he was your brother, too!_ but Avery is gone and she has nothing left and she _cries_.

She cries for days.

And she wonders—if she _did_ hurt Lyssa, or Reilly, or her mother, or her father—if the templars would come to take her too. But _no_ she decides finally, no, there is no consequence for violence and anger and there is only consequence for magic and fear and so she hurts no one and talks to no one, and in the coming weeks, her father has men come and take Avery’s belongings from his room and she doesn’t ask where they’re taking them, only knows that they are no longer his and when she has a quiet moment she tiptoes into the room to find what remains of her brother and there is nothing left but a jewel-hilted dagger engraved with the letters _A.T._ that her father had given him on their twelfth birthday and now, mere months later, it sits alone in the empty room collecting dust, sole remaining proof that Jaime and Rosalind ever had a son at all, and Ellinor takes it for herself and shuts the door behind her. She never returns to his room.

When Ellinor is fourteen years old, her ninth attempt at passing unnoticed into the walls of the Ostwick Circle proves successful and the dozens of letters she’s written Avery over the past month prove worthwhile after all and she’s going to rescue him and they’re going to leave Ostwick, leave the Free Marches, run to Ferelden or Orlais or Nevarra or somewhere nobody knows them.

Somewhere they can be free.

And after she stalks through the shadowy corridors, weaves in and around the templars patrolling the hall, arrives at last in the apprentices’ tower, only one Trevelyan awaits her.

 _Bryony_ , she breathes, and time has closed any wounds she’d inflicted on her two years before when she’d last seen her and any differences she might have forged against their near-mirrored features have disappeared with the years but today she bears a Knight-Captain’s insignia embroidered into her templar-red sash and Ellinor knows there is no look she could have given her that would be uglier than the one she wears now.

Her heart pounds and her knuckles turn white but her attempt to unsheathe her dagger—Avery’s dagger—is no match for the greatsword Bryony swings from over her shoulder or for the four templars behind her. She draws fast but they draw faster and she cannot win a match of blades but still she demands _where is he?_ and Bryony only smiles, _gone_ , she says, _transferred_ , and Ellinor feels her heart drop to her stomach and for a moment—a long moment—she’s unable to breathe and still Bryony stands before her, no emotion betraying her face but the stony smile she still wears.

 _Where is he?_ she repeats slowly, shaking, hurt and panic and heartbreak uncontrolled and unrelenting within her, threatening at every word she speaks, and _how can you smile?_ she asks, tears pooling in her eyes and _he’s my_ — _he’s_ our _brother_ and _he’s your brother too, he deserves to be home, to be fr_ —but Bryony interrupts her; _home?_ she asks, laughing, _laughing_ before she continues, _did you not have an elaborate plan to run away from here?_ she asks her, _to take him from the Circle?_ and she smiles and she grins, _oh, Ellie_ , and her voice drips with boredom and deference and she shakes her head, _that would make him an_ apostate _, Ellie, an_ outlaw _, Ellie_ , and the grin on her face vanishes just as soon as it’s appeared and when she speaks again she wears a face of stone and her eyes are ice and her voice is venomous.

 _Don’t you know that magic exists to_ serve _man, Ellie, and never to rule over him?_


	10. Endings

For a week, nobody asks her to send her reports to Commander Cullen. No one asks why she’s moved a training dummy from the yard on the town outskirts to the small patch of land beside her cabin, or why she travels the long way out past the tavern and around the pond to collect herbs when she could just cut through past the recruits. Training reports are given to her through Cassandra or sometimes Blackwall, who’s taken it upon himself to assist with the newer volunteers. Even Dorian offers reporting on how the mages have settled; when Fiona comments on the occasional verbal spats between her mages and _your templars_ , she says pointedly to Ellinor, Dorian clicks his tongue at her in warning, shakes his head, and the Grand Enchanter says no more.

When they meet in the war room, she stands side by side with Josephine, or less frequently Leliana, rarely Cassandra and certainly never Cullen. She doesn’t look at him. He gives his reports and recruit updates and debriefings to the _council_ , not to _her_ , and when they’re finished, he’s always the first to leave, Ellinor retreating to Josephine’s office for tea or lunch so as not to cross paths with him exiting the Chantry. If he chances a glance in her direction, she’d never know. She’d never care to know.

They certainly haven’t spoken.

But, days and days following their return from Redcliffe, when her council has prepared and readied itself and her companions have grown restless, itching to press forward, onward, and the Breach still looms each day, thick and green and stretching across the sky, at last he approaches the little clearing beside her cabin where she slashes and stabs her worse-for-wear training dummy even as the sun has set and the moon has risen above them and she stops, watching, waiting, _burning_ inside at the sight of him alone, and he clears his throat, pale-faced and red-eyed and fingers shaking, gripping the pommel of his sword to steady themselves.

“Your mages are ready,” he tells her, without greeting or farewell, disappearing back toward the training yard.

They depart the next morning.

 _We don’t know how this will work_ , she’d explained to her companions before leaving, _if it will work at all_ , she’d added, _so some of you will need to remain in the town with the remaining recruits_. Varric—always a man of the people—had volunteered to stay behind, as had Blackwall. Others she’d directed. Solas understood; Vivienne needed persuasion— _but who would I trust more to keep an eye on Fiona’s mages for me?_ she’d asked sweetly. In the end, it’s three who come along. Dorian, because he knows the group of mages they’re bringing for support better than anyone, Cassandra because each day Ellinor wonders less and less why she was the right hand of the Divine and understands more and more that Cassandra is a born right hand to any leadership, and Sera because she’s _Sera_ , and if Ellinor must return to the Temple of Andraste once more, _I’d like to return with a friend_.

She comes to regret this, partway through their journey, when Sera’s incessant chattering has worn thin on her nerves.

“So what’s up with you and Commander Tight-Arse, anyway?” she asks—rephrased from previous inquiries but altogether the same question for the fifth time.

She’s glad the others are far enough behind the two of them now. She doesn’t need Dorian’s questions and furthermore Cassandra was _there_ , she’d _seen_ what happened; with her any answer would pale in comparison to the full story but without her it’s almost easy to dismiss the elf’s nagging. “Nothing, Sera,” she sighs. “It’s irrelevant.”

Sera only sticks her tongue out at that. “Doesn’t seem ‘irrelevant’ to me, the way your face screws up like you’re sucking back a lemon every time someone says his name.”

But Ellinor shoots her a glare, and finally, _blessedly_ , her questions cease, and they continue onward to the temple in silence.

They stick to the wooded trails, serene and quiet leading out of Haven and growing thick and uneven with rubble as they move further and further from the town, and though none in the company comment, the all-too-recent destruction of the temple is evident in the land around them, haunting, sobering. The trees seem drier. Brittle. Even the evergreens along the path thin and gray as they continue onward toward the site of the Breach. Trails once clean, fresh, covered in a thin layer of snow from winter nights now stand littered with bits of stone and foundation yet untouched since the explosion. Languid forests just over a month ago at peace and teeming with crimson cardinals, the browns and yellows of deer and bears and fennecs, now loom dead and empty and colored only by shards of stained glass picture windows, broken pieces of the Bride herself staring back at them from the frost where she lay.

And for the third time in her life—the third time this winter—she approaches the Temple of Andraste. She scarcely remembers the first time. The second was against her will, cuffed and unarmed but for the dagger sheathed at her thigh. And she thinks, if there is a Maker above them at all, maybe he would allow this time to be her last.

“People really traveled from all over Thedas to meet _here_?” Sera asks, scratching her blonde bangs off her forehead and looking, unimpressed, at the fallen stonework and rubble around them. “Bit of a shitty sight, yeah?”

Cassandra glares at her. “The Temple of Andraste was very beautiful before it was destroyed in the Conclave explosion,” she says coldly, and Sera shrugs.

“Pretty building, no pretty building…” she mutters. “Still freeze your arse off.”

“Not this again,” sighs Ellinor, and Dorian chuckles behind them, laughing— _laughing_ —in spite of the steep incline as the near the top of the peak, in spite task before them.

“I’m just saying!” Sera argues. “Next time all your templars and your mages have a row and someone ruins the sky, do it somewhere warm. Antiva. Or something.”

“Sera.”

“Ellie,” the elf shoots back, and if Ellinor has a retort at all, she’s forgotten it at the first sight of the looming remains of the temple before them, the last remnants of stonework and walls beneath the eye of the Breach.

“We’ve arrived,” Cassandra says, straightforward as always because for once, _for once_ , Ellinor has found herself at a loss for words, and it takes her a moment to collect her thoughts, take a deep breath. Find herself.

“I need the mages at the top wall,” she says, thoughts quieting. “Sera, you too.” She inhales deeply again, ignoring the fade rift sparking to life in the center of the ruined temple before them. Exhales long, slow, _controlled_. “Cassandra, I’ll want you on the ground with me.” _Focused_. “Dorian, you as well.”

She doesn’t wait for further questions because she knows they have none; the Breach is hers to close, hers to finish, and she presses forward into the ruins feigning a certainty she doesn’t have, a confidence only made real as she crafts it painstakingly step by step, word by word, and as they enter, the air crackles around them, thick with fade magic and static and electricity as they descend the broken steps towards the grounds below, onward, forward.

“Are you worried?” Cassandra asks her suddenly, and she turns around to find the three of them looking back at her intently, questioningly.

Wondering.

“Not at all,” she answers, and Dorian grins, proceeds down the stairs with his staff in hand, and Sera twirls an arrow between her fingers with a sly smile as she perches on the ramparts. Even Cassandra grants her a nod, and when the Seeker unsheathes her blade, Ellinor ungloves her hand.

 _Quiet_ , she thinks, as the ripping green energy pulls into her body and sinks into her palm.

 _Controlled_ , and the demons that seep from the rift are no match for her support, for her _friends_.

 _Focused_ , and she closes her eyes, breathes deeply once more, and closes her fist.

 _Done_.

* * *

_Dear Cullen,_

_No response? I wish I could say I wasn’t surprised, but still, with you back in Ferelden instead of somewhere across the damned Waking Sea, I had at least hoped to hear a short “I’m well, thank you Mia, how are you?”_

_We worry about you—me and Bran and Rose. Even little Jackson keeps asking “Uncle Cull?” because of course we talk about you all the time, but he’s never met you. When things quiet down, maybe you could come visit for a few days. Nothing long. I know better than to pull you from your work—you can hardly return a few words of a letter, let alone take the time to come for long. But please, consider it. We miss you._

_Or even better—they say the mages occupying the Hinterlands have joined up with your Inquisition. That’s good. The sooner that nasty Breach is closed, the sooner you can just come home._

_With love,_

_Mia_

* * *

The cheers upon their return are deafening, and the setting sun casts a rosy glow over the whole of Haven and its inhabitants, a welcome change to the golden-hued rooftops compared to the sickly green light of the Breach that loomed over the town for too long before. _They have peace_ , Ellinor thinks, glowing as the sun glows behind her as she and her companions make their way into the village.

They have lost no one. Not a single mage. Not a single soldier.

Zero casualties.

 _No one_.

Festivities have begun already in the center of town, fires and candles lit around them and townsfolk are dancing, chatting, _grinning_ , and the mages she’d brought to the temple are among their friends and already spinning tales wilder than the one they’d lived that afternoon but she can’t blame them; it’s _done_ , it’s over, and someone has brought out casks of ale and wine and bread and Josephine finds her soon enough, pulls her into a long embrace, _we were so worried_ she says but then instantly adds, _I knew you could do it_ and she’s gone again to congratulate Cassandra, Dorian, even _Sera_ and Ellinor feels like a weight has been lifted off her shoulders. Someone passes a tankard of ale to her and she grins, toasts, and _Maker_ she is sore and she needs a bath but _the Breach is closed_ and _my friends are safe_ and _soon, soon, Avery will meet me here in Haven_ and she would worry about the rest later. Later.

She finds a spot by a fire alongside Sera and Varric and toasts them as well, settles in to listen to Sera’s own inaccurate retelling of their feat, and she smiles. She breathes. And _Swift_ , Varric interrupts Sera, _you haven’t even touched your ale_ and she flashes him a grin, _you’re right_.

She’s scarcely had time to bring the tankard to her lips when an ear-splitting shriek rips through the revelry.

It’s a familiar sound.

She’s heard it only once before. Distant but hauntingly shrill somewhere deep in the Hinterlands.

It’s a dragon.

Her breath catches in her throat at the recognition and she whips around frantically in search of Josephine, Cassandra, Sera, but her friends and the townspeople alike only stare at one another and the sky in shock, disbelief, and the first pair of eyes she finds in her search are Cullen’s. She doesn’t hear his words but she can read his lips.

_Move._

She’s screaming before she realizes the words are even leaving her mouth. “Everybody take cover!” she yells, “take shelter, go inside!” and Cullen is shouting too, _too the Chantry, all of you!_ and he’s rallying his lieutenants and directing his troops to their posts and in seconds Cassandra and Blackwall are at his side, and Fiona and Dorian have gathered the mages and at some point Sera has appeared next to her.

“Ellie?” she asks shakily, and Ellinor has no response, and her mouth is dry, and she can only shake her head at her.

“The gates!” Cullen yells, and when she looks out toward the outer edge of the town, all she sees is red.

When the buzzing in her ears from the dragon’s screech finally subsides, all she hears is shouting.

_It’s red, and it is loud._

And through the red and the roar, a single voice chimes in, clear and close as if it were right next to her: _open the door!_

She looks around to see who’s spoken, but the townspeople have fled to their homes and the others are too far away and yet she _heard_ it, clear as day, _open the door_.

“Open the door!” she repeats; she’s not sure _why_ and she’s not sure who it is, but she thinks, for some reason, they must.

“What are you—” Cullen yells, over the troops and the down the stairs toward her but she shakes her head and repeats herself, and a couple of scouts move to the great gate and pull the doors open to reveal a man.

 _Not a man. A boy_.

“They’re coming,” he says, and distant marching roars behind him and the land beyond the town is red, and the boy is red, hands covered in blood as he approaches them from a sea of bodies slain upon his knives, all red and black and bearing the sigil of—

“ _Who’s_ coming?” Cullen demands, out of breath and impatient, having finally reached them at the open door.

“Templars,” answer Ellinor and the boy simultaneously, and if it’s possible for his pallid Fereldan complexion to grow even paler, it does. He doesn’t ask for clarification. _He doesn’t need it_ , she thinks, _he knows them better than anyone_ and _maybe he knows why they’re here_ but—

“Get the stragglers inside the Chantry!” he barks at one of the scouts. “Blackwall and Cassandra, you man the north trebuchet.” He looks sharply at the remaining scout. “Find Captain Rylen. Have him take the south trebuchet. He’ll know—he knows what we’re up against. And…” He turns, finding Ellinor still beside him. “You and Josephine, take shelter in the Chantry with the civilians.”

The dragon shrieks again, out of sight and somewhere to the north and yet and not nearly far enough away to ease the racing in her heart, the the pulsing in her veins, and she shakes her head vehemently. “Tell Josephine to retreat to the Chantry,” she tells the scout, and before Cullen has time to argue, she continues. “I don’t know why these templars are here and I’m not sure we’ll ever know, but if there’s a chance we can save Haven, then I will not _hide_ , Commander,” and she glares at him, _you will not deny me this_ , but to her surprise, he doesn’t argue. He doesn’t speak back to her. No. He nods.

“Very well,” he says, and he looks over the boy, up and down, but _now is not the time for questions_ , she knows, and they return to the higher ground to survey the outer lands.

 _Red_ , she thinks, and her heart sinks. _There are so many, and they are loud._

“Ser!” a scout calls out, returning to them with a quick salute. “Captain Rylen and Seeker Pentaghast await your signal.” Cullen nods again, strong and deep in thought and for a moment she finds him distinct from the commander she met so many times before in the war room—not argumentative, not bristling, but quiet. Controlled.

Focused.

“Tell them to wait until the mages are in place,” he tells the scout. “At the Grand Enchanter’s signal, they may fire when ready.” When the scout departs, he turns to Ellinor. “Archers will stay up on the walls and the rooftops until the walls are breached,” he explains, “and I have close-range troops stationed at the weak points in our defenses. If you’re able—”

“I’ll go there,” she confirms, and he gives her the same look—hard and thoughtful, before nodding again, and she turns, grips the daggers sheathed at her hips, and starts back down the snow-covered stairs.

“Lady Trevelyan!” he calls after her, and she looks back. “I don’t know how long the walls will hold. Be careful.”

They hold, she finds, for quite some time. Long enough to make some breaks in the templar forces, from what she can hear as Cassandra and Blackwall shout out from the trebuchet behind her. Long enough that the mages begin to run low on energy and the archers are near exhausting their supply of arrows and bolts, and when the old stonework and worn wood finally begin to tremble and shake at the oncoming storm of templars, she grips the handles of her knives in shaking hands. _They held, Commander_ , she thinks, _but they cannot hold forever._

As soon as the first of the templar forces break through, everything is a blur. A rush of red on black, crimson in shadows and cold templar steel and the blades of her knives, of blood and silverite and the wicked red lyrium Varric had warned her so often about during their travels. _It’s here_ , she thinks, _it’s close_ , and if she had not seen the deep red stone emerging from every angle through the templars’ armor before her, she would know it by the _buzz_ in the air, the way its presence brings a dull ringing to her head by proximity alone, but _no_ there is no time for her to dwell on that now; there are templars to battle and civilians in the Chantry somewhere far behind them; _no_ , she must press forward, hold them back. She takes one hard blow to the head from one of the larger templars, bulky and looming and almost entirely covered in red lyrium, and for a moment her vision darkens and she can feel the blood trickle down her forehead and into her eyes but no sooner does she blink than a _whir_ of white and a flash of knives pass before her and she recognizes the figure to take down the templar as the boy from the door; _he is good_ , she thinks, _he helps_. Later, she takes a slash to her arm; she’s hardly aware of the hit when it comes, only sees it when she chances a glance sideways and the sleeve of her jacket has fallen from her shoulder and the wound beneath it is gaping, bloody.

But they fall to her knives. She may take hits, but they _fall_.

And soon, almost as quickly as the attacks had begun, the fighting slows, and they remain, Ellinor and Sera atop the crumbled wall beside her and Dorian somewhere behind her and Cassandra and Blackwall next to the since-toppled trebuchet but _they are alive, they are okay_.

And the dragon shrieks overhead.

And a deep voice calls out into the night.

“ _Herald of Andraste_.”

And it is silent.

Nobody moves.

 _It’s here for me_.

“Go,” she says to Sera beside her, her voice barely a whisper but she gathers her strength and speaks again. “Get the others and _go!_ ”

For once, _thank the Maker_ , the elf has no snarky response, no _Ellie_ this or _Ellie_ that, and she _runs_.

Ellinor says the same to the others—Cassandra and Blackwall, Dorian, the remainder of the mages, the rest of her companions, their soldiers who survived the initial assault and are uninjured enough to continue on and _it wants me_ she thinks with dread, with emptiness, and everything flashes before her, the ship across the Waking Sea, the first templars she killed, the _last_ templars she killed, the Conclave, the mages, _Avery_ and _oh Avery, I only ever came here for you_ and—

“Lady Trevelyan!” someone calls to her, and she turns around, brought back once more to the cold air of Haven and the smell of smoke and blood around her.

_Cullen._

“There’s a passage running out of the Chantry to the mountainside,” he says. His armor drips with blood, _not unlike my own_ , though it appears none of it is his. He is tired, she can tell by the way his breath shakes and his eyes darken, but he is resilient. “We’ve already started moving the civilians through,” he continues, “along with Josephine and Leliana and her spies. The mages and soldiers will follow—we can all make it, if we hurry. You must—”

“—stay here,” she finishes.

He stares at her.

“You heard it as well as I did. ‘Herald of Andraste.’ It’s after me. If I go with you, I’ll put everyone in danger.”

“But—”

“Commander, if you want a chance of getting everyone through to the other side, I need to stay behind. I’ll hold them off as long as I can.”

And again, _again_ , he looks at her, the long stare, amber eyes contemplative, thoughtful. “There’s one trebuchet still standing,” he mutters. “If you— _somehow_ , if you were able to—”

But she doesn’t let him finish the thought. _The chances are too slim_ , she knows it. So does he. “I’ll hold them off as long as I can,” she repeats. “Maybe I can meet everyone, after. On the other side.”

“Yes,” he says, swallowing. _Doubtful_. “Maybe.”

But he doesn’t move.

“ _Go_ ,” she urges, as she had with Sera, with the others, and he swallows again, nods, turns away, and her thoughts return to Avery.

 _Tell him I’m in Haven_ , she’d said to the mage in Redcliffe, and she looks around her at the town she’s called home for longer than she’d ever meant to—razed, defaced, engulfed in flames, littered with bodies both familiar and unfamiliar, the carnage and destruction unrecognizable from the village she’d come to know. The village Avery was supposed to find her in.

_Just east along the lake._

She looks toward the last remaining trebuchet Cullen had indicated—the only one to survive the relentless onslaught of templars and horrors and behemoths and, of all things, a _dragon_ —and takes a deep breath, pulls the ripped fabric of her jacket over her shoulder once more, winces at the pain of the fabric over the raw wound, and tries, fails to knot what remains of her braid back atop her head again.

 _Just up in the mountains_ , she’d said.

“Lady Trevelyan!” Cullen calls to her, a final time, voice hoarse, shaking, and she looks back to face him. His mouth opens again but when he speaks the dragon shrieks overhead, drowning out his words and granting her only a sharp pain in her head and a ringing in her ears, and with a final look, he departs through the Chantry, closing the heavy wooden doors behind him and leaving her with nothing but the ghost of his last words to her on his lips.

And when she turns around and unsheathes her daggers, faces the dragon as it sits atop the roof of the tavern before her and lets the hot air of its fiery breath blow back her tangled and blood-streaked hair from her face, she thinks, maybe, he might have thanked her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so if we pretend this fic is a tv series, we can think of this as the season 1 finale


	11. Parting Words

_Thank you_ , he says to her, clear even for the distance between them, sincere even as his voice shakes and yet, and _yet_ , sincerity is no match for her adversary; however loud he can call out, the dragon roars louder. She can’t have heard him, _it’s too loud_ and his voice too hoarse, but he still hopes—prays—she might understand. He chances a final look back when he reaches the already-scorched chantry doors, crosswind from the dragon’s landing hitting him even there where he stands, half the town away from her and still she waits, steadfast among the ruin, daggers drawn at her sides, hands steady even as she holds her position face-to-face against the beast. Fearless.

 _Brave_.

He doesn’t dare linger to see any more— _she’s chosen her duty, I must follow mine_ —and yet he’s unable to explain the sick feeling in his stomach when he pulls the half-charred doors to the Chantry open, lets them close with a _thud_ to shut out the roars from outside and leave him standing in deafening silence, smelling of smoke and blood and feeling somehow has though he’s failed.

 _And so is the Golden City darkened_ , he thinks bitterly, leaning back against the doors that months earlier he’d crossed through for the very first time, a man barely recognizable to himself, a man Cassandra saw something— _somehow_ something—in that deemed him fit to lead the Inquisition’s forces. A man with room to grow, with a purpose. And now he closes the same doors to a town that gave them everything for their cause only to be thanked with ruin, with death, with—

“Cullen.”

He looks up to find Cassandra lingering in the great halls, dust and bits of stone falling from the ceiling in a gray cloud as somewhere in the distance the grounds, the mountains shake. She’s waiting.

Waiting for him.

For _them_.

And he has returned to the Chantry alone.

“Ellinor,” she says, voice a mix of shock and of heavy understanding as she saves him from having to explain himself. “Is she…”

He swallows. Shakes his head. Nods, in the end, _yes_ , “She chose to—”

Cassandra stops him then, raises a gauntleted hand to his jumbled attempt at words; _yes_ , he thinks, _she knows_. “Then we will not let her choice be made in vain,” she says simply, and he gathers himself, _yes_ , nods again.

“The citizens?” he starts, finding his voice as they make their way through the Chantry, crossing over stonework, debris, scattered books and fallen pews, the bodies of those not fortunate enough to survive through the evacuation.

“They are mostly accounted for,” she confirms. “Josephine made sure the healthy assisted the injured in leaving. We have some known dead and those missing are...assumed dead.”

He nods again; he _wants_ to say more, _Maker guide them now_ or _that’s horrible_ or most of all _I’m sorry_ , because he _is_ sorry, aid for the citizens of Haven should have been the _least_ the Inquisition’s forces could provide and yet here he is, hardened and empty and unable to voice the words because civilian casualties are hardly a tragedy to which he is a stranger.

When they approach the altar, Cassandra pulls the single remaining torch from the sconce along the wall and gestures to an opening behind the Chantry’s statue of Andraste, dark and looming in the flickering firelight Cassandra holds before them. “Here it is,” she tells him. “We must hurry.”

It’s hard to hurry when the stairs are old, rickety, partially frozen from the sub-ground-level cold and slick with bits of water and forming ice. “The soldiers?” he inquires, trying to pick up his pace, but the descent is seemingly endless and the decline is dark with Cassandra’s torch always a few steps above and behind him.

“They left only after the mages and the others had gotten through,” she says, speaking downward to him as he finally reaches the bottom, the ground half-frozen beneath his feat but solid, sure.

“Good,” he says, surprised for the conduct of his soldiers, no time for pride or for gladness. _Perhaps I should not be so surprised_. “That’s good.”

They walk for what seems like ages, cold and dark and _Maker’s breath_ he’s beginning to feel the ache in his bones now; no amount of drilling and sparring and training his recruits could measure up to a real battle, an unexpected one at that, and no partner—not his most promising soldiers, not Rylen or even Cassandra—could have prepared him for the monstrosities he’d seen, the flashes of red and stone and _lyrium_ and _oh it was like Meredith all over again_ but this time he did not question, he knew _exactly_ what to do and should his body pay for it then so be it. _The soreness is good_ , he thinks as they continue down the cave-like path, _cathartic_ , the ringing in his ears and the dull ache in his head less so but _there are bigger things to worry about now_.

 _Maybe I can meet everyone, after_ , she’d said. _On the other side_.

“Cassandra,” he says, suddenly, surprising even himself. “She might...there may be a chance.”

“I know,” the Seeker replies, certain and determined and _strong_ as always. The end of the path greets them with a mouth of snow and stars only just brighter than the darkness within it. “That is why we must hurry.”

* * *

_Mia,_

_This is a raven borrowed only so that I and others may notify our families of our safety. Please do not delay its return, as many others will need to make use of it as well._

_I must request that you stop sending mail to Haven. I will send a new address for correspondence when I can._

_Cullen_

* * *

Josephine begs to come along with them when they reach the others and announce they’re going to back to look for her. The beginnings of a humble camp have been set up; most of the injured have been moved into tents and those uninjured are busy at work helping, healing if they’re able, setting up cots and shelters where they can. Night has fallen, swift and dark but smoke from Haven is still visible on the other side of the mountain, a reminder that however far they’ve traveled, however they have escaped, the darkness and the dragon and that _voice_ —Cullen still could not even begin to guess what sort of demon it could be—still loom, somewhere, out there.

And so could she.

“No,” Cassandra says firmly to the ambassador’s pleas, while Leliana is less harsh.

“Who will take care of the people if we all go?” the spymaster reminds her, clasping her hands in hers, a rare instance of warmth. “No one can do it like you, Josie.”

She relents, if only for the sake of the refugees, but when the three of them turn, set out back into the cold from which they’d only just escaped, Josephine calls out once more. Not to Cassandra. Not to Leliana.

“ _Cullen_ ,” she pleads, and he looks back at her, shivering and standing under wind and snow, clad only in her silks, a decorative fur shawl, her heeled slippers. Clothes she would have searched for Ellinor in without a second thought. He feels guilty. Hollow. “Bring her back.”

The full nightfall brings only colder temperatures, more frigid and snapping and dry, and the mountainside is dark under the near-new moon, lit only by the torches in Cassandra and Leliana’s hands. _Ellinor!_ they call out to her, and he joins them, _Lady Trevelyan?_ but they’re answered only by the whipping wind, the haunting thick quiet of increasingly rapid snowfall. He counts the time passed by the position of the great mountain beside them as they walk, and the night only grows colder, the snow more bitter, and he knows. None of them one wants to say it, none _will_ say it, but he knows.

_If the dragon didn’t kill her, this weather will._

And still they call. _Ellinor!_ and _Lady Trevelyan!_ and pauses and wind and silence. They walk until he’s sure they’ll stumble right into the wreckage of Haven all over again. The walk until the skin on his face burns from wind and his fingers grow numb even beneath his leather gloves.

They walk until a dark figure, small and slow, breaks up the monotonous white wall of snow before them.

“Ellinor!” Leliana calls, and when she does, the figure pauses, slow, and falls to the ground.

He’s certain that she’s dead.

When he finally reaches her— _Maker_ damn _the ankle-deep snow_ —and sees her, skin cool and colorless, jacket torn and bloodied at her ribcage, _she’s not even shivering_ , he’s sure of it.

And still he bends down, checks for a pulse, for _anything_ , and just as he’s about to stand again, turn to Leliana and Cassandra in defeat, he hears it—short, shallow breaths, ragged and barely audible over the wind.

But they’re there.

“Hurry,” he says to to them both, reaching around himself to unfasten his cloak from his armor and _Maker it’s freezing_ but the pounding urgency of blood in his veins distracts him, and he wraps the fur around her body before hoisting her into his arms and turning back around. They’re done wandering now, done searching; anything else is only a race against time and so they start back the way the came, following their own footprints until the tracks are no longer visible from the snowfall and they must look to the mountain position once more. Every so often he dips his head back down, fearing the worst, but each time he hears her breathing, short and weak but _there_.

When they return at last to the meager fires, the modest tents and lean-tos erected in haste as soon as they’d deemed the distance they’d put between themselves and Haven to be enough, Josephine is there to meet them, weary and cold and looking as though she’d had no sleep at all—he doubts she had—but determined nonetheless. The worry from her face eases only slightly upon seeing Ellinor’s wounded and still body in his arms; he himself is only barely convinced she still lives. They rush through the crowds, Cassandra shouting something to create a wide berth for them to pass and they head quickly into the first available tent, Fiona’s best healers close behind him. He sets her down hurriedly, gently on the cot they’ve set up and she coughs, weak, wet with blood still in her mouth, but she doesn’t stir.

 _Maker_ , he thinks as the healers get to work, _she looks so different_ , only a shell of the woman he’d stood opposite from countless times in Haven’s chantry and once in the sparring ring. Then, she’d seemed impossibly strong, inarguably confident even where her stature lacked height and breadth, and as he gazes upon her broken form, wordless and hollow, the boy from the gates—Cole, he’s called—appears beside him. “Her silence makes her smaller.”

No sooner has he materialized than he’s gone again, and it’s just the healers and her silence and _him_ , just Cullen. _I should leave_ , he thinks, and yet he feels responsible. Somehow.

 _I can meet everyone after_.

What if they’d waiting too long? What she _could_ have escaped with them?

_On the other side._

It was the right thing to do, he tries to remind himself; even Cassandra had understood it. And yet he’d been the last to see her, standing with her back to him and her face to a dragon.

 _Go_ , she’d urged him, and he had.

He feels responsible.

And so he waits, standing in the tent first behind the healers and then with his back against the canvas wall as they finish their work, leaving one by one having done all they can for her. _She looks weak_ , he thinks, reflecting on Cole’s words earlier, _her silence makes her smaller_ , and now that the healers have finished, it’s hard to see the injuries along her body, the gaping wound he’d noticed at her ribs. Someone had brought in blankets, someone else a heating rune, and she rested, weak and fragile but breathing evenly, better and stronger than the short, ragged breaths she’d taken when they’d found her.

“ _Move_ ,” someone says, interrupting his thoughts with an adamant tone, a slight accent— _Dorian_ , he notes, the mage—and nearly as soon as Cullen recognizes the voice, the man himself pushes past the healers outside and enters the tent, kneeling beside the cot in worry, gazing over Ellinor’s wounds himself. He hardly strikes Cullen as a healer, but they’d scarcely spoken since the mages’ arrival from Redcliffe. Truth be told, he isn’t sure. _It’s not the time to ask_ , of course, and nearly as soon as he resolves to leave the two, Dorian turns around, offering a glare that could rival the many the Herald herself had given him.

“I thought this space was for friends,” he says coldly.

_Friends._

Only then does Cullen realizes how out of place he must look—arms crossed, brow furrowed, lips pressed in a straight line. He’s not quite sure why he’s still standing in her tent at all—she’s in the best care the Inquisition can provide her, given the resources they have at the moment, and the mage is hardly wrong. _We’re not friends_.

He swallows, rattled by the comment regardless, and says nothing, instead gives him a nod, short and expressionless, and takes his leave.

 _Friends_.

The crowds have dispersed from around her tent and the snow has stopped when he returns outside. Only Cassandra remains, warming her hands by the fire, waiting. When she acknowledges him with a hard look and gestures to the barrel beside her, he realizes for the second time that _she was waiting for me_.

Cassandra leaves little room for argument, and so he takes the seat.

“She is all right,” she says plainly, as though they were having casual conversation, as though he hadn’t spent the past hour looking over the healing and the aid the mages had provided for her broken and wounded body. It’s not a question. She already knows.

“Yes,” he replies.

“We will move forward as soon as she is able,” she continues, placing her hands on her knees. “Solas knows of an old fortress large enough to take in the Inquisition and Haven’s refugees, and more, should we need the space.” If she sees his skeptical look, she does not address it. “This attack leaves more questions than we had had before closing the Breach,” she says gravely. “There is much to be answered and much work to do, moving forward.”

He nods.

“But Cullen,” she says, and he looks over at her. The fire casts a deep gold glow over her face and highlights the stoney tone, the straight-lipped expression she wears so well. “You cannot continue like this,” she says, and this time when she speaks to him she does so with a tone of finality he has only heard her use once before, in Kirkwall.

 _If you would join us, then you will have to leave this life behind_ , she had told him. _You cannot take it with you_.

And he did. He _tried_. And yet she uses the same voice now, the one he knows deep down is true and just.

“What Ellinor has done here has cemented her place in the Inquisition,” Cassandra continues. He knows.

 _I know_.

“I am not asking you to be her friend,” she says. “But you _will_ be her advisor and you will be her colleague.”

 _We are not friends_.

“She would have died to save Haven—to save us all—and you will not forget that.” He swallows, nods. “She has proven herself trustworthy and valiant, and we must ensure that she is working for a cause she can likewise have faith in.”

“But she doesn’t—”

“ _Cullen_ ,” she says tersely, but he _has_ to say it, it’s _true_.

“She doesn’t trust me,” he finishes. “The person she sees—the person I _was_ …” He knows he’s rambling; he knows Cassandra could hardly care less, _but it’s true_. “It’s not who I am, I don’t _want_ that anymore, but she can’t look past it. She hasn’t.”

Cassandra stares at him, wordless for several seconds before she stands and pulls her gloves on once more. She offers him no pity, true to herself. “You worked well and honorably today,” she says to him, turning away and looking out into the night, dark once more for the ceased snowfall and faraway stars. “So perhaps, Cullen, it is time to become the person you _do_ want her to see.”


	12. Waking

_Dear Lyssa,_

_Your concerns are unfounded. Bryony has written us several times—recently, in fact—to tell us she is well. If she does not share her whereabouts, it is because she is working on something important. You know how cautious the Order has been since the business in Kirkwall. It is not our duty to pry, but rather our duty to wish her well in her work to keep the Free Marches (and all of Thedas, for that matter) safe from the corruption and dangers of magic._

_I am surprised, though, that you have seen Ellinor. Your father and I thought her gone when she’d left for Ferelden. She is on a fool’s errand, as always, when it comes to your brother—we expected her delusions of adventure to run their course and for her to return to Ostwick after a few month’s time. That she had kept her word to us and attended the Conclave at all is unexpected news. Please urge her to return home when you next see her. This little escapade of hers has gone on long enough._

_With love to you and Mathieu._

_—Mother_

_Signed Lady Rosalind Trevelyan._

* * *

Everything is cold. Everything is numb. Everything that isn’t numb aches like she’s been thrown off the peak of a mountain and into a rocky chasm below, and her lips are chapped, and her mouth is dry, and the skin on her face is cold and cracked against the whipping wind, and her eyelids are heavy with sleep no amount of which has been enough for her, but behind them the world is bright.

It’s bright.

And there are voices.

And she is alive.

She remembers, vaguely, stumbling through the deep and thick snow in the dark of the night with no direction but the one her freezing feet carried her in. She remembers the faint flicker of firelight she thought she’d imagined. She remembers falling with nothing to catch her but the biting powdered snow and the wind on her face. Voices. The sound of cool metal clanking against itself, the feeling of fur caked in snow and half frozen in strands against her face and the smell of smoke and oakmoss and cold, dry air in her nostrils.

She remembers nothing else.

But there are voices, and today, she listens.

“Give it to her,” someone mutters gruffly. _Cullen_.

“Why?” _Sera_. “She’s not awake anyway, the fuck’s she supposed to do with—”

“She was half-frozen to death, Sera, give her the blighted cat before I do it myself.”

With whatever little strength she can muster, she tries to force her eyes open. And she fails. But the sudden weight dropping to her side, stepping carefully in circles, kneading and pulling at the thick blankets stacked atop her tell her Sera has conceded to Cullen’s request.

“Whatever then,” the elf huffs, and she can feel the slight _crunch_ of dead grass underfoot, the _whip_ of a canvas tent flap thrown back. “Yell if she does anything interesting. Gonna go get some breakfast.”

 _I’m awake_ , Ellinor thinks desperately, _don’t leave_ , and she struggles to cough, struggles to move but the blankets are pulled over her too tight, struggles the speak but nothing comes out of it. But thankfully, _thankfully_ , her second attempt at opening her eyes proves successful.

It’s bright.

Blurry, too, but far too bright, even as the canvas falls closed again and the sunlight reflecting off the snow outside is shut out. And it’s still. _Sera is gone, then_ , she realizes, not that she can see clearly at all, but everything is _still_ , so much so that the elf can’t possibly still be present. She thinks—hopes—for a moment that she’s alone, that Cullen had left with her, but no sooner does the thought cross her mind than a dark figure shifts in the corner across from her.

For a moment, she wishes she were unconscious again.

But she blinks, closes her eyes, opens them again, and closes and opens them once more. Slowly, her vision returns, confirming that it is indeed Cullen sitting opposite her cot. He’s not looking at her, _thank the Maker_ ; instead he’s lost in a stack of papers, thumbing through them and searching for something. _He looks tired_ , she thinks, _pale_ , and as her eyesight sharpens slowly, she notes the dark circles around his eyes, the way his lips sit in the near-permanent frown so often cemented upon his face, and every few seconds, he lifts his hand up and presses his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose, breathing slowly, like he’s trying to focus. Like he’s exhausted. Like he hasn’t slept in days.

 _How long have I—_ she thinks, but before she can finish, _how long has he—_ and her stomach turns at the thought and her eyes widen and she nearly chokes trying to speak.

“No,” she croaks, and his eyes snap up. He almost drops the papers he’s holding. Under better circumstances, she might have laughed at him, but instead, she sighs, deep, long—too long, really; the sudden exhale rushes a fit of coughs to her chest, and she has to close her eyes again just to focus on breathing. When the wave passes and she opens them once more, he’s standing beside her, papers still clenched in the fist of one hand, the other rubbing the back of his neck nervously.

“You’re awake,” he says dumbly.

“I—” she starts. “How long—where…?”

He nods rapidly, blankly, as though he’s trying to find the answers, as though _he’s_ the one unsure and trying to piece everything together. “Um,” he begins, but if he has an response for her he hasn’t the chance to say it—in a burst of gold silk and delicate furs, the tent flap opens once more and Josephine rushes inside, pushing Cullen away to kneel by her cot.

“Ellinor!” she exclaims, placing her hand comfortingly over the blankets where her arm lay underneath. The cat—still and silent leading up to her entrance, stretches slowly, hops off the cot, and slips back outside as though deeming Ellinor’s current company capable of watching over her. “I had heard voices from outside,” the ambassador continues. “I did not dare hope—but then, you _are_ awake, and I— _we_ —were so worried.” Her dark eyes shine with joy and relief, and Ellinor manages a small smile, if only for a moment.

“Haven,” she starts; she’d first directed the question at Cullen but now she she has Josephine, _a friend_ , and she tests her arm cautiously, pulling it out of the covers to take her friend’s hand. Sore, aching, but nothing more. “How long?”

“Two days,” Josephine admits. “We lost...a lot of soldiers. And many mages and civilians as well.”

“But—”

“Your friends are all all right. That is good.”

 _Good_ , she thinks bitterly; she knew there would be casualties—she’d seen too many of them strewn across the half-burnt town before she’d confronted the dragon—but how can she deem the survival of her friends _good_ when so many innocents had been lost? _Lucky_ , maybe, even _thankful_ , but certainly not _good_. But she is too tired to counter, too weary to argue back.

“Where are we?” she asks instead, and the tent opens once more as Cassandra pushes inside, Leliana at her heels.

“Ellinor!” they say, each in quick succession, rushing to join Josephine beside her and pushing Cullen further to the other side of the tent.

“Careful,” he mumbles, not for himself but _maybe for me_ , Ellinor realizes, her face growing warm. She brushes it off, forces a smile for her friends, tries to push herself into a sitting position.

It’s a mistake.

She gasps when the pain hits, sharp and deep in her ribs and Cassandra grasps her arm, holds her up, and Josephine claps her hand over her mouth and Leliana frowns and Cullen says again, _careful_ , barely a whisper but Ellinor’s sure she heard it.

“You should try not to sit up so fast,” Cassandra offers, and though her advice comes a little too late, Ellinor nods gratefully.

“I didn’t know—”

“You had a wound deep on your side,” Cullen says, clearing his throat. “The healers did what they could for it, but it was...not very good. It needs a few more days, most likely, and—”

“How do you know that?” Ellinor asks, furrowing her brow, and he rubs his neck again, like before, says nothing else.

“Cullen’s stayed with you since…” Josephine begins, her eyes—minutes before so happy to see her—filled with worry. “Well, since they found you. He and Cassandra and Leliana all went, and they brought you back, and—oh Ellinor, we thought you were _dead_!”

 _I should be_.

The memories flood back to her—Haven, fire, smoke, blood, death, snow, Sera telling the others to leave, Cassandra and Blackwall retreating with a shared look of fear and pity after her, Cullen standing at the Chantry doors and saying _something_ to her, she still didn’t know, and then she was alone, fire and smoke and blood and death and snow and a dragon and Corypheus.

“Corypheus,” she says suddenly, and then, for a third time, “ _where are we_?”

“Only on the other side of the mountain from the Chantry,” Leliana answers. “Who is—”

“That’s not far enough.”

“We plan to move soon,” says Cassandra. “Who is—”

“We need to move _now_ ,” Ellinor says desperately, her head aches and her body is sore and there’s a sharp pain in her ribs but _we are too close_. “Corypheus is still out there, I have no doubt of it!”

“Lady Trevelyan,” Cullen speaks up, and all of them—Ellinor, Cassandra, Josephine, and Leliana—turn around to look at him. “We can’t move. Not at least for a few days—there are simply too many injured, yourself included. We can’t further risk the safety of innocent people by traveling any more than they can manage right now.”

_You don’t understand._

She presses her palm to her ribs; it’s still tender, but she fights back a grimace as she stares into his eyes, tired and red as they are but strong, too, always strong when their opinions differ. “Commander,” she says, trying her best not to show any of the pain she’s in, “we’re risking their safety by _not_ moving. Corypheus—”

“Who _is_ Corypheus?” Cassandra demands, and Ellinor stares at her, at _them_ , mouth open, eyes wide.

 _You weren’t there_.

“He’s a…” she begins, altogether unsure of how to describe him. “He’s a god, or at least he thinks he is.” She clenches her left fist, opens it, looks down. _Still there_. “He tried to take the anchor. He seems to think that _I’m_ trying to be a god, and...I don’t know. I don’t know. But he has the power to take this from me, I could _feel_ it, and he’s still out there, and his dragon, and his templars. They’re still out there.”

For a while, no one says anything, and Ellinor stares hard at them all, breathing slowly, pushing back thoughts and memories of the pain in her left arm and wondering if the slight sting she found in her hand now was real or just her imagination.

“That is,” says Cassandra slowly, “a lot to take in.”

“Yes,” agrees Josephine, and Leliana nods silently.

“And he is still out there?” Cassandra echoes, and Ellinor nods. “Then we must...we should move, when we are ready.”

“We’re _not_ ready yet,” Cullen insists, and Ellinor glares at him.

“We need to prepare, Commander,” she says. “We need to distance ourselves from Haven. We don’t have a choice.”

He says nothing to that, doesn’t argue back as she expects, and for that, she’s grateful. Wary, but grateful.

“I will alert the others of our plans,” Josephine says, speaking first. She gives Ellinor another squeeze of her hand before standing and exiting the tent. Cassandra only nods solemnly before following her out, and Ellinor returns the gesture.

“Ellinor,” Leliana says, straightening and making to leave. “The others have borrowed birds and written letters to tell their families that they are safe and all right. Perhaps you would like to—”

“My parents haven’t made contact with me since I’d left for the Conclave,” she replies evenly. “I hardly believe they’ll find my survival to be of note.”

Leliana says nothing to that. She doesn’t even miss a beat. “I was thinking of your sister, in Val Royeaux,” she says instead. “Although I expected more or less the same reaction.”

“Your expectations are correct,” Ellinor says, and the spymaster smiles, neither warmly nor mockingly, and exits, holding the tent flap open for someone else.

“Ellie!”

 _Sera_.

In the corner of her eye, she sees Cullen press a hand to his forehead, but it’s irrelevant to her; Sera has arrived and she’s brought smiles, giggles, a bundle of black fur tucked under one arm. Where the others had been cautious, quiet approaching her bedside, Sera bounces onto her cot with a single leap; if she’d weighed in at any more than her lithe elf size she’d surely have launched Ellinor into the air, but it’s no matter, she’s smiling, _really_ smiling for the first time since waking.

“Knew you were up!” Sera says excitedly. “Cat came over all ‘ _mrowwwww_ ’ and upset and whatever, so I came to see what all the yowling was about. And _you_ —” she jabs her finger in the air towards Cullen, “were supposed to yell if Ellie woke up. So it’s a good thing at least _one_ grouchy furry boy was listening to me.” She waves that cat in the air emphatically before dropping it on Ellinor’s lap. She almost winces from the sudden weight on her lap but _Cullen is still here_ so she hides it, stays strong, offers a smile to Sera.

“You saved him from Haven,” she says, nodding at the cat. “Thank you.”

Sera shrugs. “Spotted him when I was running to the Chantry and just kinda scruffed him and took him along, y’know?”

Ellinor laughs.

“I don’t,” she replies, as always, and Sera grins.

“Anyway, are we leaving anytime soon?” she asks. “Now that you’re awake and all. ‘Cause we don’t all have nice tents with nice cots. Pretty cold for some of us. And you’re awake now, which is good because you were pretty boring just sleeping there, and—”

“Yes, Sera,” Ellinor says. “We’re leaving as soon as we can.”

“Oh thank the _Maker_ ,” she says, springing back up off the cot. “Gonna go pack my stuff then. Or at least, my bow and some snacks.” She’s nearly to the end of the tent when she turns back around. “Ellie?” she asks. “I’m glad you’re alive.”

Ellinor smiles. “Thanks, Sera.”

And for the second time that day, she abandons her, leaves her only with Cullen and a cat half asleep at the foot of her cot, and it’s silent once more but for the bustle of people outside, the soft crackle of a nearby fire, the weight of Cullen’s boots as he moves back and forth against the ground.

“You stayed,” she observes. “Why?”

He shifts uncomfortably under her gaze, her questioning, _good_ , she thinks. _Let him_.

“I was the last person to see you,” he answers finally. “In Haven. I watched you go to him—Corypheus. I let you. And if you’d died—”

“It was my choice to make,” she interrupts him, but he continues.

“—if you’d died, it would be because I let you,” he finishes. “I would have felt responsible somehow, and I didn’t want…” He looks down now, rubs his neck again. “It’s no matter now. You survived. And Haven is gone.” After a second’s thought, he adds under his breath, “and its Chantry with it. You got your wish.”

She straightens, shifts into a better position, frowning for a fraction of a second in pain but quick to smooth over her emotions, steeling her eyes on his.

“Forgive me,” he says almost instantly; _he regrets saying it_ but _I don’t care_.

“And you nearly got _your_ wish, Commander,” she replies coldly, _she knows it’s not true_ but then _a unchecked response for an unchecked thought_. “I almost died.”

“I didn’t mean...” he starts, looking at her desperately. “Andraste preserve me, I would _never_ —”

 _I know_.

“Is the whole town really gone?” she asks suddenly. _He is a fool_ and _he regrets it_ but his shortcomings in his words are hardly her biggest concern now. _Families_ , Leliana had said; she’d told Avery to find her in Haven and now—

“Yes,” he answers, solemn, regretful. “You triggered an avalanche when you launched the last trebuchet. It’s good, it—it was the best we could have hoped for, anyway. Whatever wasn’t burnt or destroyed is under snow now. Leliana’s agents have done some preliminary scouting and confirmed it, I believe. Why…?”

 _Gone_ , she thinks.

 _Avery, I’m so sorry_.

“My brother,” she manages; she hadn’t expected the burning at her eyes, the lump in her throat and now, in front of Cullen, she does her best to swallow it back. Hide it. Show nothing. _You shouldn’t be telling him anyway_ , she thinks; _it’s not his business_ , but still, “I’d sent a message to him, by way of friends in Redcliffe. He was to meet me in Haven, but going back is no longer an option. It’s too dangerous. It will wait.”

She lies then— _it will wait_ —she knows she will not have another chance like that. But there is no time, she will not linger on the thought now, _not in front of him_ , and she sets her jaw straight, looks him in the eye, brown on gold, expressionless.

He breaks eye contact first. “I’m sorry,” he says, and she could laugh at him for it. “I’m...truly sorry.”

 _You’re not sorry_.

“Commander,” she says, coldly, even more so than before, “had you ever before cared about what happened to my brother, you had your chance to help.” _Keep your voice clear and your expression clearer_. “Instead, you chose to berate me for my loss. To deny my pain. And for that, I think it would be best for both of us if you spared me your feigned pity.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i keep meaning to mention this in my chapter updates and then i always forget BUT anyway i kind of document my stages of writing this fic by memeing about it on my [blog](https://bitchesofostwick.tumblr.com/tagged/awa-memes) if you ever wanna just. you know. look at some good old-fashioned a world alone memes.


	13. Fallen Fortune

_Inquisitor_.

No sooner had they arrived in the fabled mountaintop fortress than the title had been placed upon her, the cheers of her friends and Haven’s refugees alike deafening and calling her _savior_ even as her wounds still ached raw, calling themselves _saved_ even as the great keep surrounding them stood in partial ruin. An avalanche, a days-long trek across the Frostbacks, little food and little equipment and more casualties than they could count and yet they considered it a victory for the Inquisition, a success for their _Inquisitor_.

Ellinor wants none of it.

She’s hardly had time to adjust to the title before she’s tasked with countless responsibilities— _Inquisitor, could you approve these construction plans?_ and _Inquisitor, where shall we house the refugees?_ and _Inquisitor, we must appeal to Orlesian nobility for aid_ —all tied in and countered with _Ellinor, make sure you’re taking the time to rest_ and _Ellinor, you shouldn’t overwork yourself when you’re still healing_ —and _blessed Andraste_ , she can’t believe she’d ever wish to go back to a time where she was _merely_ a girl with a green mark who could close the Fade and not the very same girl but with duty, with responsibility, with the weight of Thedas on her shoulders and the name of _Inquisitor_ on her back.

 _Is it too much?_ Josephine asks her in earnest, not once but many times, and she forces a smile and says _no_. Their _people_ have been through too much, _lost_ too much; they need hope and they need someone to look to and although she never asked for the mantle of _Inquisitor_ , the decision has been made and she will wear it without complaint, even as her friend asks her, _is it too much?_

The answer is always _no_.

When they’ve had time to adjust—if she could call it adjusting—when they’ve had time to heal and rest and make some semblance of a home for themselves in different corners of the massive fortress, they resume their war council in the hall beneath the quarters chosen for Ellinor by Josephine and Leliana. The new war room is bigger, brighter, large glass windows letting the light in and overlooking the endless mountainside around them and granting her, at least for a time, the peace of mind to sit and discuss the work looming before them.

It starts off well enough. They make it past lengthy recruitment reports, thorough records of the injured and the dead from Haven, what feels like hours worth of construction blueprints, moving from topic to topic with purposeful—if slow—progress. And for once once, all are in agreement on the most important course of action—that they must, with utmost urgency, seek and gain more knowledge of Corypheus and his forces. How they should achieve this is, as always where their differences lie.

“We have secured an alliance with the mages,” reasons Josephine. “With your friend Dorian. He is a scholar, is he not? We have a wealth of knowledge at our side—we must start there.”

Leliana shakes her head. “It would be wise to go to the source,” she counters. “Send agents to Tevinter. See what we can find about this ‘Elder One.’”

“Yes,” Ellinor says quietly, nodding to both of them. Her thoughts are swimming and she can’t tell if it’s the amount of time they’ve been meeting or the heat of the sunlight pouring into the windows, but she can’t bring herself to form a decision on the matter. Not yet.

“I disagree,” says Cullen, _of_ course _he does_ , and the room seems to quiet around her, make way for a ringing in her ear, and she presses her fingers between her eyebrows. He clears his throat. “The templars working with him are a dangerous enemy. They’re more than a match for our forces in skill and training alone, but with _red lyrium_?” He shakes his head, exasperated. “Lady Trevelyan, we cannot afford to ignore them for any longer than we already have. Finding their leader, their lyrium source, anything about their forces will no doubt lead us to more information on Corypheus himself. We must move quickly if—”

“With what, Commander?” she interrupts him, trying to force strength, conviction into her voice. But she is tired.

 _Maybe it_ is _too much._

She pushes on anyway.

 _They are watching_.

“We’ve exhausted our forces in Haven already,” she continues. “Those who survived the attack are hardly recovered and ready for further assault on the templars.”

“We’ve an influx of new recruits,” Cullen presses. “I explained so in my earlier reports.”

She shakes her head. “They’re too green, Commander. Surely you know this.”

“I’m not talking about a full-on offensive, Inquisitor,” he says, _Inquisitor_ , and her chest clenches, tight, compressed. “They no doubt have smaller units of men out there—you saw them in the Hinterlands yourself, there are bound to be more and—”

“Enough,” she mutters.

“But—”

“Enough.” She breathes deeply—she tries—and rests her fingertips on the table before her. “Enough. We’ve been here since breakfast. We can resume this discussion tomorrow.”

They don’t question her now. None of them. Not this time. Instead, they gather materials, return markers to their appropriate places on the map, leave the room ready for their next meeting.

Cullen is the first to leave and after today’s exchanges—much like any other day’s—she’s not surprised to see him exit nearly as soon as they’ve adjourned. Leliana goes next, a curt nod, a murmured _Ellinor_ , nothing more before she slips out the doors, silent as the grave.

“You’ll come for tea after lunch?” Josephine asks her before leaving. Always so kind, always so good to her. Even after standing through hours of plans, of cold snaps of disagreement between her and Cullen, the ambassador still— _always_ —speaks to her with grace, with love.

She forces a smile. She has to. _Never let them see you falter_ , she reminds herself, though Josephine is hardly the _them_ she should have in mind. _She’s your_ friend, she reminds herself, almost ashamedly. “Of course, Josie,” she replies aloud, wondering if her voice sounds as strained as she thinks, wondering if the lightheadedness she’s started to feel reflects at all on the appearance she’s forced herself to keep up all day, all week, since they arrived, really.

The ambassador returns her smile, _though hers is genuine_.

“I will see you then,” she says cheerfully before following the others out the door, and at last, _at last_ , Ellinor is alone.

She waits, scarcely aware that she’s holding her breath, and counts the steps Josephine will have taken away from the room, _one_ , _two_ , _three_ , until _ten_ , and she _breaks_ , gasping for air, a dry sob followed by one, and another, and _Maker, how much longer can I do this?_ she wonders, thoughts racing in her head, of Corypheus, of Haven’s refugees, of her friends, of Bryony and Lyssa and sweet, poor Avery, told of a town that no longer exists, lost to her just as he was so many years ago, and she can’t, she _can’t_.

_How long can I pretend?_

She can’t breathe; she’s the only one left in the great room and yet it’s so stuffy, _it’s too warm_ , she needs to get _out_. Somehow she finds her way to the door, fumbling for the handle, pulling, pulling, _has it always been this heavy?_ and moving numbly through the halls, staggering at last out into the battlements and swallowing the cold mountain air, every breath faster, harder, _colder_ than the last.

 _It’s too bright_ , she thinks, the great windows in the war room had let in the sun but not like this, her vision is blurring, _I can’t breathe_ , and for a moment she regrets coming outside, _they will see you_ , and suddenly, suddenly, a strong hand wraps around her wrist, pulls her off the battlements, pulls her indoors.

“Easy.” A familiar voice. Cullen’s. “Sit—here, sit down.”

 _No_ , she thinks, _not you_.

It’s still hard to breathe.

_Never let them see you falter._

Everything is blacking out around her.

 _Not him_.

Her limbs won’t seem to budge. As though reading her mind, heapplies a bit of pressure to her shoulder, forcing her, though gently, to the floor. “Deep breaths now,” he says, voice steady, strong in the face of her panic. “Here, pull your knees in—that’s it.”

She breathes deeply, as instructed, in through her nose, _hold it_ , out through her mouth, in through her nose, out through her mouth, in, out. She breathes for several minutes, she isn’t sure quite how long, but until her lungs don’t burn with every inhale, don’t shake with every exhale. She’s not sure when it evens out. She doesn’t even realize she’s squeezed her eyes shut until the spinning sensation slows around her and she opens them, slowly. The black is gone, and though her forehead is pressed to her knees, she can see the light around her again. No black, no blur.

“Lady Trevelyan.”

He’s still there. He _saw_. His voice is soft— _how can he be so calm?_ she thinks, when her blood pounds through her veins, burning, ripping into her very being.

“Are you all right?” When she doesn’t respond, he continues. Soft. Quiet. Words _spoken_ , not barked, not taunted. “Do you get panic attacks often?” he asks quietly. “It’s all right if you do.” Still, she’s silent. “I do, sometimes.”

The feeling in her chest pulls at her, no longer panic, but fear, hurt, confusion. Guilt, maybe, as she opens her mouth to answer him but only says, “I’m fine,” coldly, sitting straighter, smoothing her hair. His eyes are gentle on her, honey gold, softer in the indoor light though she can’t remember a time she’s looked at them so closely, but her head is still light, her heart still heavy, and she looks away, looks down.

 _He’s being kind_ , she _knows_ it, and yet her words are cold and her blood hot, _you let him see_.

But he continues. “You’re under…a tremendous amount of stress, really. And I’m sure we don’t—” he swallows, rubbing his neck, “— _I_ don’t make it any easier for you.”

 _He’s being kind to you_ , she knows, and yet she can’t. She won’t. _He saw you_. He’s reaching out to her and she recoils like a snake, aware of the venom in her words and yet unwavering in her need to bite.

She scrambles away from him and rises to her feet.

“I’m _fine_ , Commander.”

When she looks at him, he’s no longer gazing back. _Good_. He doesn’t pursue the matter any further and she takes her chance, makes for the door of the empty run-down tower, ignores the needle-like sensations pulsing through her hands when she reaches for the doorknob and leaves him behind her; her legs are still weak and the sun outside still too bright but she scrambles away, shaking, scattered, shamed, working her way through the battlements, up and down the endless flights of stairs and hallways until she reaches her quarters, far, far away.

When she closes the door, she can breathe freely.

It’s empty and it’s cold and it’s sparse, in disrepair, vast in the way it looks out to the mountains surrounding them on two sides, vast in the way that there is nothing but stone flooring and chill and her own little bedroll unfolded across the middle of the room, but she breathes a sigh of relief anyway. It’s hers. It’s away from Cullen, from _anyone_ , from any reminders of who she was or who she’s become or who she’s expected to be.

It’s vast, and there is space, and there is air to breathe.

* * *

_To the Lord Mathieu Étienne LeClaire and Lady Lyssa Ariela LeClaire,_

_The Marquis and Marquise Wiscotte cordially invite you to attend their Gala d’Or on the twenty-fifth of Wintersend from seven o’clock to midnight in celebration of the marquise’s birthday. Attire should be gold and gem tones in theme with the gala. Please present your invitation upon arrival._

_Signed the Marquis Louis Wiscotte._

* * *

She needs to get away from it all.

First, Josephine suggests sitting for a pot of tea. Then Leliana offers to train her in archery. Master Dennet tells her _you’re welcome to help out in the stables if you need a breather_ and Dorian teases, _I could use a hand getting this poor excuse for a library organized_ but she ignores them all; no place in Skyhold is far enough away for her, and before dawn the next morning she departs for the Hinterlands, telling no one and bringing only Sera along.

 _What’re we keeping secrets for?_ the elf chatters, and Ellinor ignores her question; she’d thought of everyone she could have brought, Sera at least wouldn’t pester. She’d thought wrong. _Bit of a surprise_ , she continues, _up and leaving and not telling anyone_ but _don’t mind at all, just wondering why?_ and still she doesn’t answer, only presses further into the grasslands, grey and dry as winter has swept over the countryside. _Gonna be a bit mad, won’t they?_ she asks when Ellinor spots a column of templars from afar, _Josie and Leli and Cully?_ she asks when Ellinor unsheathes her knives, _probably gonna miss you when you’re gone so long, yeah?_ she asks even as she takes her cue and yanks an arrow from her quiver, pulling back against her bowstring and waiting on her command.

 _Yes_ is her answer when they take them by surprise. _Yes_ when stealth is the sole agent on their side as she slashes through their numbers—six seems like twenty when it’s only her and Sera against them— _yes_ when they finally finish and she sheathes her daggers and Sera replaces her bow back over her shoulder, _yes_ when she looks over the templar corpses are there are spatters of crimson ripping out from their faces, from their necks like quartz from stone and these are not the templars they’d encountered in the Hinterlands in the months before, _no_ , Cullen was right, she knows that he was right and hates that he was right but he’d said _we cannot afford to ignore them for any longer_ and she and Sera had hardly been in the Hinterlands a day and already found six.

He was right.

They turn around that day to return to Skyhold.

They hadn’t been gone very long, the excursion far shorter than any other time she’d ventured into the Fereldan countryside, and yet there’s an immediate buzz upon their return. In the Hinterlands she was Ellinor, the Herald, even, _Ellie_ to Sera but they’ve returned now, the weight on her chest returning with her, and she is no longer _Ellinor_ but _Inquisitor_ again. She parts ways with Sera at the tavern; it had been mere days since their departure but already the little building has improved with construction, the elf says something about _going to check it out_ and hurries off, leaving her alone to cross the sun-soaked yard, to climb the steep stone stairwell at the front of the main keep.

She’s hardly reached the first step when Cullen meets her.

“Lady Trevelyan,” he says soberly. She’s been gone for days and yet there is no anger in his eyes as she had expected, rather something else—anxiousness, maybe, concern—but she has no time to place the emotion when he grabs her by the hand, ignores her outbursts and questioning as he leads her up the stairs at a rushed pace, two at a time, pulls her through the hall and past a group of whispering nobles in the foyer, stepping over stone and construction planks and turning finally at Josephine’s office.

“ _Commander!_ ” she hisses, yanking her still-gloved hand from his. “What in Andraste’s name—” but she stops when she turns away from him into the office.

There are people—too many people—Cassandra and Cullen and Leliana and Varric and Solas all gathered around, and more, knocked-over furniture, something— _someone_ lies across the carpet, Josie’s _new_ carpet, delivered from Val Royeaux only the day before Ellinor had left for the Hinterlands and now it’s stained red in spots and she nearly chokes, _Josie_ —and the ambassador sits not in her overstuffed chair by her desk, not in her ornate armchairs delivered to her along with her elegant carpet across from the fire, but on the floor before the hearth, on her knees with her face in her delicate hands.

She’s crying.

“Josie,” she breathes, and she rushes to her side—a quick glance over the her clothes proves the blood on the carpet isn’t hers, _thank the Maker_ , but rather of the body lying on the ground before them. “What happened?” she demands, glaring at Cassandra, at Cullen, the tone in her voice hard against the gently arm she wraps around her hand, the soft fingers she places on her shoulder to say _it’s all right, I’m here_. Cautiously, Josephine looks up, taking deep breaths, blinking any remaining tears from her eyes.

“Assassins,” Cassandra answers clearly, and Ellinor doesn’t give her the chance to say more.

“ _How?_ ” she growls.

“We’re not sure,” Cullen says, and she narrows her eyes at him. “It only just happened. Our resources were scattered, half our guard concerned with trying to find _you_ —”

“I needed a _break_ —”

“And the Inquisition needed it’s leader!”

Cassandra insists.

“I was only gone for—”

“Josephine was in danger and you were nowhere to be found!”

“Stop!” Josephine cries. “All of you! Stop it.” She holds out a bloodstained scroll—no doubt pulled from the corpse of the assassin—and holds it out. “Ellinor could not have prevented this even if she were here. It is my fault for putting the Inquisition at risk—”

“It is _not your fault_ ,” insists Ellinor, holding her tighter, and Cullen nods in agreement.

“Don’t say that, Josephine,” he says softly, any anger toward the situation melted away in concern for their friend. He motions to her for the scrolls, steps forward, accepts it from Ellinor’s outstretched hand.

“It’s a contract,” he mutters, skimming it over. “From...some ‘Du Paraquettes.’ I don’t recognize—”

“A rival merchant family,” Josephine clarifies. “The contract was on the Montilyets. On _me_.”

“But why…?”

Josephine shakes her head slowly. “They must...they know I’m in Orlais now. The Montilyets are to remain in Antiva, or so they have been for centuries now. By coming here—to Skyhold, to Orlais—I am...breaking the agreement.”

Ellinor gapes at her. “But you’re not here to _trade_ ,” she sputters, heat, anger rising to her cheeks. “Surely they must understand—”

“The merchants in Orlais and Antiva—everywhere—are cutthroat,” Josephine says softly, and Leliana nods in agreement, in understanding. “It will not matter.”

“It _should_ ,” growls Cullen, and Ellinor nods.

“Josie,” she says, shaking her head. “This will not happen again.”

“You can’t stop—”

“It will _not_ happen again,” she insists. “Leliana, I want everything you can find about these Du Paraquettes.”

“Done,” she spymaster says, disappearing from the room almost as soon as the word leaves her mouth.

“Commander, double the—”

“I will double the guard around your office, Josephine,” he says. “And if there is anything else I can do— _anything_ …”

Ellinor grasps her friend’s hand in her own. “Just tell us,” she pleads.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you all know i like to twist canon a bit here and there, so i'm sure you might notice i'm adjusting josie's personal quest just a bit in this chapter and the next. it will work, i promise!
> 
> also--some of you (longtime readers) may notice that a snippet of this chapter appeared on my blog in october. it's been revised and reworked to fit in the story here.


	14. Invitations

_Commander,_

_My unit has combed through the Hinterlands with no success, reaching as far south as the Fallow Mire. If Sister Leliana can spare any of her agents, now would certainly be the time. We’re currently stationed somewhere in the bannorn of Calon. We await your word._

_Lieutenant Beth Forrester_

* * *

_It’s not so bad today_ , he tells himself, pulling the door to his office closed behind him as he makes his way out to the battlements. The sun is only just peeking out behind the mountains, _the hour is early yet_ , it’s quiet and the overnight guard shifts will be over any minute and only the birds are tweeting now, and there are clouds overhead so when the sun rises fully, it won’t be too bright, won’t push the dull ache in his head quite so much—though the continued construction around the keep might— but for that, he is thankful.

 _This isn’t so bad_.

He makes his way down partially repaired staircases, forcing a _good morning_ or _hello_ to every _Ser!_ and an _at ease_ to every salute from passing recruits; when he reaches the grounds, he accepts the waiting letters and reports from a runner. Most are from Harding and Rylen out in the Storm Coast, he’d sent a unit there the week before upon the Inquisitor’s return—she’d come back not with more information or support from Fereldan countrymen but with a mercenary Qunari and several of his comrades, _they’re friends_ , she insisted, _it seems everyone is her friend these days_ , but he’d met Qunari, knew Qunari in Kirkwall; where they came, they brought trouble. Other letters come from Lysette in Redcliffe; he’d instructed the young templar to take a couple of recruits with her to visit the village and deliver more detailed news of Haven to the Arl; her letters promised that the citizens were still getting on well after the events at the castle and with the mages. A final letter is marked on the outside only with his first name in writing belonging to none other than his sister; he hadn’t remembered letting her know where to write him now but _no matter, Mia always finds a way._

He tucks _that_ letter into his coat, unopened and unread.

 _Mail_ , he thinks plainly, checking off the first item on his mental list as he crosses the grounds. A trio of recruits are assisting with the construction efforts, it seems; just days earlier he’d barked at a group dawdling before morning drills had begun— _You are all a part of the Inquisition_ , he’d told them, couldn’t fathom how they didn’t see their duties stretched beyond simple drills and training, _I don’t want to see anyone sitting around_ picking clover _when there is other work to be done!_ —and this morning they cross the yard carrying planks and stone, a sweat broken on their brows even now as the sun just rises into the clouds.

“Good work, recruits,” he commends them, _kindness_ , he reminds himself; months earlier the Inquisitor had reprimanded him on his severity with their forces, not with words but with looks, _I’ll show her_ , he’d thought. He’d show her. She is nowhere in sight this morning but he offers the recruits a short nod, continuing onward toward the keep.

_Mail. Recruits._

He passes the stables quietly, Master Dennet and Blackwall both awake already and tending to the horses’ stalls. No words pass between them but the two work in a comfortable silence, and the sounds of coarse brushing and the muck shovel on stone remind him of a faraway time, of his father, of his family’s home in Honnleath. He continues on without further thought.

_Mail. Recruits. Coffee._

When he climbs the staircase and enters the kitchens, three trays already wait on the table, each with a bit of breakfast and its own carafe. One holds black coffee, piping hot, and an assortment of berries and plain biscuits; another also with black coffee, although it appears room temperature, and dry toast; the third holds a pot of breakfast tea and bread with jam. _But which…?_ he wonders, reaching out for the hot coffee.

“Don’t you go poking ‘round what’s not yours, Commander!” the cook snaps at him, seemingly out of nowhere and swatting at his fingers with the handle of her rolling pin. “Those are for Miss Josephine and Miss Leliana and Miss Ellinor.”

 _Of course_ , he thinks. “And nothing for me, Marie?” he asks amicably, and no sooner have the words left his mouth than a napkin full of shortbread and a tin cup of coffee are shoved into his heads.

“Off you go then,” she says, shooing him away with the rolling pin. The coffee she’s given him is light, golden with cream, _perfect_ , he reaches for a sugar cube and she _tuts_ at him again.

“Already has the sugar.”

He grins. “You’re divine, Marie,” he says, biting into a bit of shortbread on his way out.

“’Course I am.”

He cuts out through the empty cellars, up the stairs, through Josephine’s office. It’s quiet still, the ambassador had yet to begin her day— _not without tea_ , he’s sure, remembering the waiting trays in the kitchen—and he enters the main hall unceremoniously, glad to find that none of Skyhold’s visitors appear to be awake yet either. Only Varric seems up and about, stationed at a small desk he’d set up just by the main entrance, scribbling away at a bit of parchment before him.

 _Mail, recruits, coffee._ He pauses, sipping the sugary sweet brew thoughtfully. _Mail, recruits, coffee. Mages._

He grits his teeth. The Grand Enchanter has yet to warm up to him, _templars_ , she mutters whenever he approaches; he can hardly blame her and yet _I’m trying_.

 _Mages_.

He’d enjoyed the first of the shortbread cookies he’d gotten from the kitchens; now, he scarfs down the rest without appetite, without enjoyment, wiping any crumbs from his mouth and coat before crossing through Solas’s atrium and up the winding stairs to the library, to where Fiona usually studies. But it’s too early, too quiet, too still; her desk sits untouched, tomes and scrolls and quills stacked neatly to the side where she’d left them the night before, no doubt, _very well_ , he is a patient man and he can wait. _Mail, recruits, coffee, mages_...he takes another sip, glances out the window, _it’s not yet eight_ , he notes, _mail, recruits, coffee, mages, war council_. But that would not be until midmorning, and the trays along the table in the kitchens told him the others would not be ready to meet any sooner than planned.

So _I will wait_.

Although, truly, he’d rather be waiting in his office where he had work to do than waiting here in the library where the light is dim and smell of dusty books too strong and the room so quiet he can hear the strokes of Solas’s paintbrush against the wall downstairs. He takes another sip of coffee, _just the right amount of cream_ , he thinks appreciatively, and looks around once more. It’s still.

And no sooner does he move to make for the stairs than Dorian appears behind him— _or perhaps he’s been there all along_ —nearly causing him to spill coffee all over himself.

“Fiona doesn’t usually come to study until the afternoon,” he states plainly, and Cullen coughs.

“Do you know where I might find her?”

“I am not her nanny, Commander,” the mage replies, a twinkle in his eye as he circles Cullen curiously. “What is it you wanted with her?”

He frowns, unaccustomed to and flustered under his roundabout teasing, the slight air of superiority in his voice. “I came to ask her how the mages are doing. How they’re liking their accomodations, their allies, their training.”

Dorian smirks. “She’s hardly the only mage you could ask.”

 _As though I don’t know that._ “Well, how do _you_ think they’re doing?” he counters, holding back a sigh and an eye roll, and Dorian throws his head back and laughs.

_Andraste preserve me._

“Well I don’t mean _me_ , Commander,” he chuckles. “I’m hardly the authority on these mages your lovely Ellinor has befriended, and surely you wouldn’t want a Tevinter’s opinion on your humble southern Circle folk.”

 _‘My’ Ellinor_ , he thinks, annoyed, perhaps argumentative, but he says nothing.

“What I meant is that it would be best to ask the poor chaps yourself. Be a man of the people, yes? It’s what Ellinor does when she has the time. Mingles with the common folk. I can’t say I’d do the same if I were her, but she likes to feel like she’s not quite so high up. It helps her. And the people respect her for it. So—” He pauses at the sound of rushed footsteps ascending the stairs, heavy boots, clanking armor. “It’s for you,” he says with a rather condescending grin, and Cullen rolls his eyes.

“Commander, ser!”

Dorian snorts when the scout appears—Elise, a newer recruit, _sharp, though_ , attentive and a quick learner.

“Reports from Lieutenant Forrester,” she says, nodding to Dorian politely before turning back to Cullen. “You mentioned you’d like to see them as soon as she wrote back.”

He nods firmly, ignores Dorian’s intrigued look. “Very well,” he says, motioning for her to hand them over. “That will be all, then.”

She doesn’t budge. “Ser,” she continues. “Ambassador Montilyet requests a council at your earliest convenience.”

He raises an eyebrow. “At my ‘earliest convenience’?” he repeats. _Her office had been empty just minutes before_.

“I believe that’s the polite way of saying ‘now,’” Dorian offers.

“Yes, I realize—” Cullen huffs. “Very well. Thank you, Elise. Unless there’s anything…?”

“That’s all, Ser.”

A quick salute and she’s gone, exiting swiftly down the staircase once more, leaving him behind, alone with Dorian and standing dumbly with a fistful of reports in hand and an unexpected meeting adding to the growing ache in his head. _Mail, recruits, coffee, mages, war council_.

“More reports?” Dorian echoes curiously, and Cullen shoves the papers further into the ever-growing stack tucked under his arm. “On what?”

“Nothing,” he snaps, wary at the sight of the mage’s raised eyebrows and the way his mustache tips upward when he smiles. _Maker, I hope they didn’t crinkle when I_ — “It’s unimportant.” He pulls his lips into a straight expression, making for the stairs once more.

When he brings his cup to his lips again, he finds his coffee’s grown cold.

* * *

_Lieutenant,_

_Continue to push southward. I will ask her._

_—C.S.R._

* * *

The great hall is hardly any livelier than it had been the first time he’d walked through; even now, it’s still just Varric at his desk and a couple guards on the far end of the foyer. He crosses quickly and purposefully past them, through Josephine’s still-empty office, and through the doors the unfinished hall to the war room.

He nearly knocks over Ellinor.

“Maker!” he sputters, careful—for the second time that morning—not to spill his own coffee as a bit of hers sloshes out of her cup and to the floor. “Forgive me, I had no idea—”

“It’s all right,” she mutters, wiping a bit of spilt coffee from the side of her hand. She looks exhausted, hair out of its usual braid and only tied in a hasty knot Cullen had never seen on her before.

 _It’s not_ that _early_ , he thinks, and yet he remembers Josephine commenting once on her late sleeping habits. _Perhaps she’d rushed down just for the meeting_. Regardless, her lips are pulled into a frown, her eyes dark with weariness and discomfort and... _stress, probably_.

“How have you been?” he asks suddenly, voice softening, surprising himself.

She looks at him carefully.

 _She doesn’t trust me_.

“Since…?” she asks.

 _Surely she knows._ He hasn’t forgotten the afternoon on the battlements, the way he’d found her short of breath, panicked, hurting.

She doesn’t wait for him to clarify. “Fine,” she answers, looking away from him, and he doesn’t respond, not at first. But she doesn’t say more. Just _fine_.

“You don’t have to lie,” he says finally, quietly, _no one can be just fine in a position like this_ , but she turns away from him, looking out to the mountainside through the half-open stone wall of the corridor.

“How have _you_ been?” she counters, and he pauses.

 _It’s not so bad today_ , he reminds himself, and yet suddenly he’s worried, _does she notice?_ and _is it obvious?_ because surely she wouldn’t ask out of kindness, out of caring.

He clears his throat. Coughs.

“Fine.”

He is a hypocrite, but _surely she doesn’t know_ , and anyway, he hadn’t meant to talk about himself. He only wanted to know...

“I only asked because—”

She whips around once more, fire in her eyes, in her words. “I don’t need you to _worry_ about me, Commander,” she snaps, and he backs down.

“I know,” he says, surprising himself again. He looks at her plainly. Hesitantly. She _doesn’t_ need him and if he’s honest with himself, it’s none of his business, and yet it finds himself wondering. Worrying.

“You—what?”

“I—I know you don’t,” he says. “But I still do.”

She stares at him long, hard, silently watching and questioning and thinking before finally turning away from him and into the war room, Cullen trailing at her heels.

When they enter, Josephine, unsurprisingly, is waiting for them, tea in hand, a half-eaten biscuit left on a tin tray before her—one he recognizes from the kitchens. Leliana also waits, looking as though she’s been waiting for hours— _she hadn’t passed by since I left Dorian_ , Cullen thinks, but it would hardly be surprising if she somehow _had_ slipped by him unnoticed—and Cassandra awaits as well, straight-faced and tired and solemn.

“Ellinor,” Josephine says kindly. “Cullen. Thank you both for coming at such a short notice. I understand it is quite a bit earlier than we were scheduled to meet, but—”

“It’s not a problem,” Cullen insists, just as Ellinor chimes in as well.

“It’s fine, Josie.”

Josephine smiles softly, _bless her_ , he thinks, the past few weeks have not been kind to her and yet her kindness, her elegance never wavers. _The poor thing_ , he notes, _assassins_. Josephine was without a doubt the _last_ person he could think of deserving to have assassins show up in her office and yet here she is, standing before them and smiling as though nothing at all has been amiss.

“At any rate,” the ambassador continues. “I am grateful.” She sips her tea calmly, quietly, before returning the delicate cup to its saucer without so much as a _clink_. “Vivienne and I have been to Val Royeaux.”

 _Yes_ , Cullen thinks, they know this; the two had announced their plans to go and procure furnishings and supplies from the city the week before. _And they returned a few days ago_ , he notes.

“We met with a comte who promised information on—”

“He was an _assassin_ ,” Leliana interrupts icily, and Cullen can hear Ellinor’s sharp intake of breath beside him, can practically _feel_ her fists clench as his own did. “She could have _died_.”

Josephine shakes her head rapidly. “I did not know that he would turn out to be—” she starts, but Leliana glares at her.

“Josie, you put your life at risk without telling any of us your plans,” she pushes, not angry, as Cullen had initially believed, but worried. _Hurt_.

“I didn’t _know_!” Josephine insists, and Ellinor takes one of her hands in her own, pulling her closer, supportive, _protective_.

_Just as Josephine had held her long ago in the war room of Haven._

“The fact remains,” Cassandra says, _so she’s been briefed already_ , “is that this Du Paraquette family will apparently stop at nothing to see the demise of the Montilyets. Even as common folk, they—”

“I thought you said they were a rival merchant family,” Ellinor says, and Josephine shakes her head.

“They _are_ —or at least, they _were._ It has been over a hundred years since the rivalry began. They have since fallen from their previous social status. By activating the contract, they may hope to return to their former prestige. I do not...I do not quite know the details. We did not speak so long before—that is, everything happened so fast. I am only grateful that Vivienne was there to—to—” Ellinor pulls her closer, places a hand on her back, hushing her.

“Why didn’t you bring me?” she asks quietly, and Cullen could break for the softness in her voice, the hint of pain, sorrow. Josephine takes her hands in her own, eyes searching Ellinor’s for something.

 _Forgiveness, maybe_.

“I did not know what we were getting into,” she admits. “And you have more important matters to tend to. I—”

“Josie.” He watches as Ellinor tightens her hold around Josephine’s fingers, her gaze never leaving her friend. “I have few loved ones. Nothing is more important to me than their safety.” For a moment, neither look away from each other, and all is quiet. Still. Finally, Josephine nods.

“We must put a stop to this,” Ellinor says firmly, turning back to the table, to the rest of them. “Now.”

Leliana huffs a wry laugh, shaking her head slowly. “It’s simple. Root out the assassins. Destroy their organization. She cannot be harmed if there are none left to harm her.” He rarely agrees with Leliana’s plans, _but this is clear cut enough_ , he thinks, nodding slowly.

“You know,” he offers, speaking for the first time since the meeting began. “I quite agree with—”

“No!” Josephine rushes before catching herself, collecting herself, folding her hands in front of her. “No. Please. I will not have further blood shed on my family’s account. This has...this has been enough.”

Ellinor sips her coffee silently, thoughtfully. “Then what would you have me do?”

“There is,” the ambassador begins slowly, “the option of simply... _elevating_ the social status of the Du Paraquettes. They would have no further reason to see the Montilyets as a threat if they could resume trade in their own right.”

“And you would simply ignore the attempts the Du Paraquettes placed on your life?” Leliana asks. “Forgive them, even?”

“If it meant no more bloodshed, then yes.”

Leliana shakes her head. “We cannot simply—”

“How?” Ellinor interrupts her. “Josie. How do we elevate the Du Paraquettes’ status?”

Cullen can _see_ the light in Josephine’s eyes when she looks up. “Well, we would need to speak to the right people—people with the authority or the influence to make such things happen. There is...a _gathering_...of such individuals just outside the Emprise du Lion in a few days time. A party for the Marquise Wiscotte’s birthday, but the Wiscottes are quite popular among political and legal figures in eastern Orlais. Vivienne has managed to get an invitation as a favor from a friend in Val Royeaux, and we’d hoped that…” She clasps her hands together. _Maker_ , he thinks, _she’s thought it all out._ “We’d hoped that you could go.”

“A party,” Ellinor repeats.

“With enough persuasion and enough flair, they could hardly say no to the Inquisitor herself,” Josephine appeals, and Ellinor nods, understanding.

“All right,” she agrees, and the worry practically melts from Josephine’s face.

“Thank you, Ellinor,” she says gratefully, pulling her into a tight embrace. “Thank you. The party is in a few day’s time. You will need an escort, of course, so—”

“Dorian,” Ellinor says simply, _a perfect choice_ , Cullen thinks wryly, but Josephine frowns, pulling away.

“Well, the Wiscottes are not exactly _fond_ of Tevinter,” she says slowly and Ellinor swallows.

“Varric?”

 _A less perfect choice_ , he thinks, and he can feel his heart beating in his chest with a thought. _One you’d surely regret_.

“He is not exactly,” Josephine says, searching for words, “the _gala_ sort.”

“Then,” Ellinor chances, “Cassandra?”

Cassandra grimaces. “Absolutely not.”

Ellinor presses her eyes shut, takes a deep breath, thinks.

 _She’d rather go alone than with you_ , he tells himself, and yet _this is Orlais_ , and _she is the Inquisitor_ , and for all the ridiculous Maker-damned rules and games and etiquette _she cannot go to a gala alone—she knows that as well as you do._

She rubs her fingers along her forehead.

He takes a deep breath.

“I’ll go with you.”


	15. A Party of Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHOOPS this ended up being way longer than i meant

The villa where the Marquis Wiscotte lives is just on the edge of the Emprise du Lion, only down the mountain from Skyhold, but they’re to leave in midmorning regardless. Josephine and Vivienne wake her before dawn to dress, _you will not have time to change when you arrive_ , Josephine insists upon her objection; she’s tired and cranky and hardly a morning person on a _normal_ day, much less a day where she’s to spend several hours in a carriage with perhaps the most disagreeable man she’s ever known and attend a gala with the very same that evening. Josephine comes bearing gifs of coffee and fruit, at least; Vivienne only bears powders and brushes and an armful of satin and tulle Ellinor can only assume is her dress. The mage paints her eyelids in glittered rose shades, powders blush on her cheekbones, stains her lips in a deep red; _I have no one to impress_ , Ellinor mutters, to which Vivienne replies, _my dear, you have everyone to impress_. It’s the same reason they clothe her in a gown of pale gold, skirts cloudlike, light and flowing and dreamy, _the invitation said ‘gem tones,’_ she points out, _I would imagine the Marquise would like to be the only one in gold, seeing as it’s her birthday_ , but Vivienne only laughs at her, _my dear_ , she says, _you are the Inquisitor_ , and she says no more after that; it is the truth, and it is enough.

She doesn’t see Cullen until the carriage is brought around the front of the keep and it’s time for them to leave. The sun has only just risen and yet he looks to have been awake for hours already, stone-faced, calm, awake, if a little tired in his eyes. _But he always looks tired_ , she reminds herself, always, though perhaps today a little more so. He seems out of place in his clothes—no doubt chosen for him by Josephine and Vivienne, just as her gown was—a double-breasted jacket and pants to match in deep sapphire, trimmed with buttons and epaulettes in the same gold as her gown. She’s never seen him in anything but his armor, she realizes, and in pauldrons and a fur cloak he is imposing, bold, distinguished, but in a dress jacket, he fidgets. Pulls at his collar, rolls his shoulders forward. Shrinks.

 _He has nothing to hide behind_.

“Stand up straight, Cullen, darling,” directs Vivienne, hiding an almost condescending smile behind her hand, and his usual frown grows ever more prominent.

“It’s tight,” he says gruffly, but she only laughs.

“It will fit best if you stop slouching.”

If he argues back, Ellinor doesn’t hear him. Instead, she’s pulled back into a tight embrace from Josephine, long and warm and when the ambassador pulls away, there are tears in her eyes. “Thank you,” she says quietly, “for everything.”

Ellinor only shakes her head. “Josie,” she murmurs. “You don’t need to thank me.” She leans in to kiss her once on the cheek, and with a short _thank you_ to Vivienne and a nod to Cullen, it’s time for them to leave.

The carriage is roomy, elegant, no doubt hired from Val Royeaux—and no doubt Vivienne’s idea—a symbol of status, a message to other attendees that they were no mere partygoers, no, _we are the Inquisition_ , and more importantly, _we are here on behalf of Josephine Montilyet._

No sooner are they on their way than Cullen sighs deeply, staring out the window.

_Skyhold is still in sight and already he wants to go back._

“You didn’t have to volunteer to come,” she says pointedly, her first words to him that day and his eyes snap up to her, alarmed, as though surprised she’s spoken to him at all.

“I didn’t mean…” he starts, but he sighs again. “Look, I’m doing this for Josephine. Not my personal enjoyment.”

She raises an eyebrow at him. “As am I,” she replies, and he purses his lips, skeptical.

“It’s a _gala_ ,” he says slowly. “It’s far better suited to your tastes than mine...I’m sure you’ll have friends among the nobility there.”

She nearly laughs out loud at that. “Commander,” she says, looking out her carriage window. “To assume I think fondly of nobility is foolish, even for you. But to assume I think fondly of Orlesians is an absolute joke.”

If he has a response, he doesn’t voice it. They ride in silence, Skyhold growing ever distant behind them as the sun rises further into the sky and they begin the slow descent from the mountain peak.

“Are you armed?” he asks her suddenly, _afraid of silence, perhaps_ ; it’s more for the sake of conversation than anything else, and she can feel his gaze searching her waist for a nonexistent dagger belt even before she turns from the window to meet his eyes..

“Under my dress, yes,” she replies simply, and it’s hard not to ignore the flush that crawls over his cheeks and down his neck when he looks away, no doubt considering the implications of her answer. “Are you?”

He looks back at her. “Of course,” he says, still blushing, gesturing toward the sword at his hip. Josephine had insisted on adding a golden tassel to the handle in spite of his arguments, a matching satin sash strung over his belt as well. “And I’ve a knife, too,” he says, patting a small leather holster on his opposite hip. “Just in case.”

She lets her eyes linger on him a moment longer, _he’s still blushing_ , lets silence fill the carriage once more. They shouldn’t need their blades, it would be pure scandal for a fight to break out at a gala like this, but still.

_Just in case._

They ride in silence for hours longer, until the sun is deep in the west and the thinned mountain trees make way to lusher evergreens, winter-bared birches, and the snow-covered path down the peak turns slowly into smooth cobblestone. Their travels are broken only by bits of small talk, comments on the weather; she’d be content to ride in silence but _he is nervous_ , she can tell, out of his element and anxious and _one can only prepare so much for an evening with Orlesian nobility_ and so she lets him talk, answers him in nods, hums of affirmation, one-word responses until he seemingly has little else to comment on, and it’s quiet again but for the _roll_ of the carriage wheels on the road beneath them.

“Your hair,” he says suddenly, and she looks back at him yet again.

 _He’s still trying_.

“It looks very nice. I, um, haven’t seen you wear it that way before.”

She feels her face flush a little. _That’s because I haven’t,_ she thinks, but also, _he noticed._

“Thank you,” she manages, nodding to him before looking out the carriage window again. “It’s not…it’s not exactly practical for everyday wear. There are a lot of pins involved. It took a long time.” He mumbles something akin to an acknowledging _hm_ , and she takes a deep breath.

“Josephine did it for me,” she adds.

“Oh,” he says, dumbly. “Well. Um, she did a good job.”

“I’ll tell her,” she replies, squeezing her eyes shut. The sun is low in the sky, it’s evening now, and candlelit Orlesian mansions begin to dot the road every few miles.

 _Judge Auld and Minister Bellise_ , she thinks to herself as they approach the largest yet of the villas, brightly colored and surrounded in front by ornate carriages not unlike their own. _We are coming_.

* * *

_Lyssa,_

_I haven’t heard from Bryony since she wrote wishing me and Adrius a happy anniversary in Bloomingtide. Should I have? Mother and Father spoke well of her when they visited a few weeks ago._

_Speaking of which, I had wondered briefly why Ellie wasn’t present during their visit, but I didn’t know it was because she was in Ferelden. Or Orlais. Truly, I don’t quite understand the national boundaries along the Frostbacks. Anyway, Mother and Father didn’t mention her during their stay, and I didn’t ask. I thought for sure she’d chosen to stay at the estate and sulk rather than visit me. You’ve seen her, then? Is she still doing that thing where she answers every question with a snarky answer and sighs a lot? If there was ever someone who could do with a bit of mountain air, it’s her, honestly. Good riddance._

_Hope you and Mathieu are well. Adrius says hello._

_Love,_

_Reilly_

_Signed Lady Reilly Alessandra Caius_

* * *

They aren’t too late when they present their invitation and enter the villa. It’s what Vivienne would call _fashionably late_ ; other’s have arrived already but _you, my dear, are too important to be on time_. As if she needs a lesson on the Game.

 _I have lived it_.

“Give me your arm,” she instructs through gritted teeth; though she’s known the Game all her life, Cullen has not. To call him a novice would be too kind, _he’s not even a player_ , but he does as she asks, offers his arm, gruffly, even more so when she slips her fingers around it, stiff and still as though he’s a stranger to touch. _As though he is afraid_.

“You may do introductions, if you like,” she tells him. She exceeds him in rank, _but it is Orlais_ , and he is a man, and she a woman. His arm relaxes after a few paces, and she searches the crowd for the judge and the minister; she’s met neither but Vivienne has described them to her in detail, _the Minister is a vision, at once lovely and sorrowful_ and _she will most certainly be alone_ but _be wary of the judge_ , she’d added, _for he is wealthy and noble_ and _men who should want for nothing are the greediest of all_.

“It might be best if you led the introductions, actually,” he mutters, lowering his gaze to the floor. “I don’t exactly know the language.”

She nearly stops in her tracks. “You don’t speak _any_ Orlesian?” she hisses, pressing her fingers a little harder into his arm and earning her a mumbled _ow!_ in response.

“I’m sorry,” he says under his breath, dryly, _not sorry at all_ , “who was I supposed to learn Orlesian from? My Fereldan parents? The chantry sisters? Maybe some fellow templars in Kirkwall?”

“A book?” she mutters, and he rolls his eyes.

“Why anyone would read in _Orlesian_ when they could…”

His words trail off as he pulls them to a stop, and she follows his distracted gaze to a trio of Orlesian women across the corridor, one carrying a small... _something_...in her arms.

“—très _mignon_!” one coos, bending over whatever the woman held before switching to common tongue. “Are you quite sure it is _Fereldan_?”

“Mais oui!” the other woman replies, shifting a bit, and _oh_ , Ellinor thinks, _it’s a dog_. A puppy. “My husband says he will be a fine war hound one day! You know, the Fereldans practically _worship_ these beasts.”

Cullen stiffens beside her, she can feel it in his arm when he stills.

“Oh _Brigitte_ ,” the third woman gushes. “A ‘beast’? He is so small now!”

“Très petit,” the first woman agrees. “Where did you get him? One would look lovely in my parlor.”

“Oh for _Andraste’s_ sake,” growls Cullen, and Ellinor comes back to herself, and she’s walking again, pulling him along without a second thought. “That’s a _mabari_ , the poor pup belongs outdoors or in nice kennel, not—”

“Commander—”

“—not at some ridiculous party or some woman’s _parlor_!” He frowns at her. “But as I remember, you’re not fond of mabari, are you?”

“Well, that one was a puppy,” she reasons. “Not like the big scary—”

“You’re making my point exactly,” he mutters, shaking his head. “They like it because it’s cute and small, but it’s bred for its size. For work. Just wait, once it’s full grown, they won’t want anything to do with it.”

He’s so disappointed that she can’t help but feel sorry for him, and for the dog, for that matter. _But we’re here for other reasons_ , she reminds herself, continuing her steady pace, and before long she is not leading him; rather, they walk side by side once more.

“Remind me what these people look like,” he says to her quietly. “This...Minister Bellise, and Judge Auld.”

She huffs a short laugh. “Very rich,” she begins. “Elaborately dressed. Probably pretentious, holding their pinkies up with their champagne flutes and their noses up in the air.” They haven’t even made it into the ballroom and yet there are countless guests wandering the halls in glittered makeup and tall hats, some in dark rouge and even embroidered masks. It will take time to find them. _Time and conversation_.

“Ah. That must be them, then.” He nods toward a nondescript group of women chattering rapidly in Orlesian and waving their champagne glasses dramatically about.

“No,” she says instantly, shaking her head, “they—”

She stops when she sees just the slightest hint of a smile pulling at his lips.

“Commander,” she says slowly, fighting back a smile of her own. “Are you _joking_ with me?”

“Joke with the Lady Trevelyan, Herald of Andraste and leader of the Inquisition?” he replies. “I wouldn’t dare.”

Now she’s smiling; she can’t help it. “Well, it certainly _seemed_ like—”

“Ellie?”

 _No_.

Her chest tightens, and her heartbeat quickens.

 _Oh no_.

“Go,” she mutters to Cullen under her breath, any trace of her previous smile gone from her lips.

“But—”

She pushes his shoulder, urging him away. “I’ll find you after, just go.”

Her hand has only just left Cullen’s arm when Lyssa grasps it in her own, _or tries_ ; she yanks it away instantly but the damage is done. _She’s seen me_ , and _she knows_.

“Ellie,” she says again, breathlessly this time, somberly. She lacks the decorative mask that many of the other women have donned, and even in her makeup, her wide-skirted Orlesian gown, her tightly ironed curls, Lyssa is unmistakable. “I _wrote_ you,” she says softly.

 _Of course you did_.

“It was returned to me. I was so—we didn’t know what had happened to Haven until just last week!” Her words grow rapid, eager. “I was so worried about you, I’d thought maybe...but of course, we heard later in Val Royeaux that the Inquisition was still growing, and that the Herald of Andraste would still lead them, so we—that is, Mathieu and I—were relieved. I wanted to write you again, but I didn’t know where to—”

“Is there something you need, Lyssa?” Ellinor asks through gritted teeth, and her sister’s face falls.

“Ellie,” she says softly. “I just...you are without a doubt the _last_ person I thought I might see at the Marquise’s birthday gala.”

“I wish I could say the same,” Ellinor mutters.

“I’m just glad you’re all right.”

She says nothing to that. _She seems sincere_ , but then, Lyssa is versed in the Game as well, and better practiced, too.

“Are you here with someone?” she ventures, peering over Ellinor’s shoulder to the corridor behind her. “That man—is he your—”

“Maker’s breath, Lyssa!” Ellinor hisses. “ _No._ ” Partygoers pass beside them, behind them, and the _buzz_ of the gala nudges her to hurry, _you’re here for a reason_.

“Oh. But—”

“We work together,” she mutters, glancing around her. “And he is a _templar_.”

As though that is explanation enough.

 _Was_ , a small part of her reminds her nonetheless. _Not ‘is.’_

“I see,” Lyssa says quietly. “You’ve no patience for the Order, you’ve made that clear.”

 _Not clear enough for you_.

“Lyssa, I’m not here for fun,” she explains. “I’m here on behalf of a friend—for _work_ , really. I have people I need to see, and—”

“Who?”

She narrows her eyes at her, but Lyssa does not flinch. _Not this time_. “Excuse me?”

“Who?” she repeats. “Perhaps I can help.”

She opens her mouth to argue but stops herself. _Time and conversation_ , she thinks; she knew she would need to ask around, but _Lyssa is here_ and _Lyssa knows people_ and _the sooner we find them, the sooner we can leave_.

“One ‘Minister Bellise,’” Ellinor says slowly. “And a ‘Judge Auld.’”

Lyssa raises her eyebrows. “I haven’t seen Mademoiselle Bellise tonight,” she says thoughtfully, “but Monsieur Auld was in the ballroom. Are you in legal trouble, Ellie? I—”

“Thank you,” she interrupts her. “I have to go.”

She waits for the objections. The _when will you visit?_ and the _will you write me?_ or even the _Ellie, you can’t leave yet!_ But the words don’t come. Lyssa doesn’t argue, doesn’t hold her back, and so she pushes past her in the direction of the ballroom—the direction Cullen had gone—and—

“Ellie,” Lyssa says finally, defeated, dejected, and she turns back around to face her. “Be careful. Whatever you choose to believe, the disdain you carry for others is not always reciprocated.” And suddenly, it’s Lyssa’s turn to leave, gathering her skirts and leaving in the opposite direction, the one she’d first come though, leaving Ellinor alone.

When she makes her way to the ballroom, Cullen is waiting, alone, against the wall with his arms crossed. _If Vivienne could see him now_ …

“Was that your sis—”

“Yes,” she says shortly.

He doesn’t press for more. “I found Minister Bellise,” he says instead.

“You—what?”

“I found her, after I left you. It took hardly any convincing at all, for whatever reason. I simply asked her about writing a decree for the Du Paraquette family and she said, ‘for you, ser, I would write a hundred decrees.’”

She almost laughs at his mock Orlesian accent. She wants to. But Lyssa still lingers in her mind, and Judge Auld, and _there is work to do yet_. She takes his arm once more and they weave in and out of the couples dancing, away from the music, ignoring the invitations of _mademoiselle_ as gentlemen bow to her, requesting a dance even as she walks alongside Cullen; she’d love to dance but _not now_.

It does not take them long to find the judge. He is short, balding, hair graying in patches, face red from champagne and laughter, standing alone in a corridor just outside the ballroom when she and Cullen approach.

“Monsieur,” she begins, and he turns around clumsily, smiling when he looks at her, leaving a sour taste in her mouth when he does, but she presses on regardless. “Monsieur,” she continues, voice strong, still, _he is watching you_. “My name is Ellinor Trevelyan. I’m of the Inquisition.” Cullen huffs behind her at her word choice, _of the Inquisition_ , but she ignores him. “I’d like to request your help in a...delicate matter. A private matter, that is.”

“A _private_ matter?” he repeats, eyeing her up and down, slowly, and her stomach feels empty, her chest heavy. He grins up at her, sly and mousy and greedy and her skin _crawls_ , and she can feel Cullen shift beside her. “I’d be happy to help...Lady Trevelyan,” he says, putting emphasis on her name before stepping forward, closer, _closer_ , and her fists tighten and she can _hear_ Cullen reach for his sword.

“Yes, well,” she continues, slow but strong. “It’s a matter of signing a decree regarding the social status of an Orlesian merchant family.” He nears as she speaks, _closer_ , until she can smell the champagne on him and the unease on herself.

“Of course, of course,” he chuckles. He reaches his hands forward. “Perhaps we can make...an exchange of sorts.”

_Enough._

She moves in a fluid motion, hearing nothing but the sound of Cullen’s sword leaving its scabbard and the gasp of air escaping the judge’s lips; Cullen is fast but she is faster, by the time his sword is fully unsheathed, she’s reached behind her and pulled the knife from his belt and pressed the judge against the wall and Cullen’s knife against his throat.

“Listen to me,” she snarls, low and quiet and even-toned, _he doesn’t have a choice_ but he nods, face red, eyes watering and flitting from her before him to Cullen, sword out, at the ready. She presses the blade against his skin. “You will receive a document in two day’s time detailing the social status of the Du Paraquette family,” she says. “You _will_ sign it. And you will not lay a finger on me again unless you wish to lose it. Is that understood?”

He nods, but it is not enough.

“Is that understood?” Cullen repeats, his voice nearly a growl and Ellinor can almost feel the heat of him behind her.

“Yes,” the judge chokes. “Y-yes.”

“Good,” she says, letting go, letting him fall to the floor in a gasping heap. “Now get out.”

They wait until he scrambles away, back down the corridor, until he is out of sight before Cullen returns his sword to its sheathe. He looks her over quickly, for injury, she’s sure, although she’s unhurt.

“I’m surprised you didn’t go through with it,” he says quietly, deeming her unharmed, taking a deep breath. “You looked as though you’d wanted to.”

She exhales, long, slow. Calm. Collected. Soothing any shaking in her lungs, any anger written upon her face. “I did want to,” she replies honestly, holding his knife back out to him, _an offering_. He accepts it wordlessly, tucking it back into his belt in one swift motion, eyes never leaving her. “But this isn’t about me,” she continues. “I’m not doing this for myself. This is for Josephine.”

 _He’s still watching me_ , she thinks, face warm under his gaze, but it’s not critical, not harsh. It’s understanding. Soft, even.

He nods.

And suddenly, it’s not Cullen looking for conversation as he had done earlier in their carriage. Rather, it’s her. She is tired and she is weary and the night grows late but their job is done, for now, _for Josephine_ , and here they are, unharmed and unhindered. Successful.

He’s silent as she catches her breath, and only the music of the ballroom permeates the stillness among them.

The night grows late, but they are no longer working.

“Will you dance, Commander?” she asks quietly, not curtsying as she would to other gentlemen, not batting her lashes or bobbing her head. _Only a question_ , and yet he looks around him as though she’s speaking to someone else, swallowing. _Nervous_.

“Me? I don’t…” His eyes flit about her, behind her, to the glowing floor of twirling dancers, bows and curtsies and gloved hands, whispered secrets. “I…” he tries again, eyes lingering on her, _watching me_. “No, I—I’m sorry. I hate dancing.”

 _Of course_.

“Oh?” She returns his answer with neither a smile nor a frown, her words neither cold nor welcoming. “I love it.”

No sooner has he turned her down than another comes beside her, _Orlesians_ , she thinks, he smells of overpriced wine and far too much cologne but he bows deeply, _a dance, mademoiselle?_ he whispers in her ear, throaty, flourishing, rank with desire and greed, a vulture who’d witnessed her rejection and swooped in to stake his claim because _they are always listening._

She chances one more look back to Cullen, he’s still watching, _always watching_ , although the look in his eyes isn’t quite readable. _You asked_ , she reminds herself, _and he said no_.

She grasps the skirts of her gown in her fingers once more and sinks into a curtsy, deep, long, _how Mother would be proud_.

“It would be my pleasure, monsieur.”


	16. With a Little Help

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> surprise, friends! i am updating a little early this week, as i will be at a conference for work from monday until thursday and wasn't sure i'd have enough time to polish up and post as normal on tuesday. so i hope you enjoy this chapter! we should be back on a regular tuesday update schedule next week :)

When Ellinor is sixteen years old, her parents take her to her first gala. She is permitted three dances. _Any more would be scandalous_ , her mother says, and she doesn’t enjoy the partners, a bachelor each from Starkhaven, Tantervale, and Kirkwall, chosen by her parents, nor does she enjoy her shoes— _they pinch,_ she tells her mother, to which Rosalind replies, _they’re not made for comfort, Ellie, they’re made for dancing_ , and besides, _you hardly have height on your side_ —and she’s right, Ellinor knows; Lyssa is tall and elegant and Reilly wears heeled shoes with grace and Bryony only attends parties when permitted by the Order, and even then only in templar red, in boots plated in silverite and shined to gleaming perfection. Ellinor is the last of the girls to marry, or at least she will be; Bryony had taken her templar vows and Lyssa had married the spring before in Val Royeaux and Reilly had publicly announced her betrothal just weeks earlier.

She loathes her dancing partners, how they call her by her first name, as though they know her, as though she’s already theirs. She loathes the way she must act under the eagle eyes of her mother, how she knows that though she walks the ballroom floor in the arms of another, Rosalind observes from the balconies above, always looking, _always watching_. She loathes the way she must smile and curtsy and laugh when the young men kiss her gloved hand and look down when they address her and defer to their lead when they dance as though they know the dance half as well as she does, as if they’ve put even a fraction of the hours and effort ceaselessly repeating the steps and the turns and the twirls and the movements under the watchful eyes of her parents and the sharp ruler of a hired instructor.

She knows better.

The dance is an art, and she has mastered her craft.

And she _loves_ it.

She does not warm to any of the men chosen for her at her first gala. _She is only sixteen_ , her father says when Rosalind expresses her disappointment, _she has time_ , and he grants her a rare smile of approval when she tells him she’d like to go to another. When Jaime arranges her second gala, she’s allowed three dances again. Her shoes still pinch but she wears them without complaint, the young men chosen for her are still lackluster but she dances with them anyway. The first abandons her when she _forgets her place_ , she thinks bitterly; _I’m supposed to lead,_ he snaps at her, _then stop getting the steps wrong_ , she shoots back, and he’s gone, saying he has _no time for a lady so insolent_ , and she can feel her mother’s eyes boring into her from above; she will pay for her behavior later, but _he was wrong_ , and _I was right_. The second is forward, honest, _I’ll give him that much_ , steps without flourishing, twirls her without embellishment, speaks only of her father’s lands and properties and just once comments _it’s a pity you’re the_ youngest _Trevelyan girl, though, there can’t be much left for your dowry_ , and when the dance is over and he bows and she curtsies he tells her he looks forward to speaking with her father again soon. The third is kinder, softer; she allows him to walk her into the gardens and she has her first kiss behind a hedge cut in the shape of a bear and she presses the heel of her shoe into his toe when he reaches for the laces on her bodice and calls her _Ellen_ by mistake.

When she is nineteen, she’s been to twelve galas and three balls, danced countless dances with countless men, received proposals from none. On the day Reilly is to be married in Perivantium, she gives her that look, that feigned pity she offered to her once before when she was twelve years old. _You’ve exhausted the Free Marches’ supply of suitors, I hear_ , she says, _maybe give Tevinter a try_ , but Ellinor doesn’t flinch, doesn’t retaliate; she’s used to the thinly-veiled mockery toward her love for dancing and her hatred of loveless dance partners—a mockery not unique to Reilly’s lips, she knows.

But she takes her advice in stride.

Rosalind warns her against taking too many dance partners after the wedding ceremony, _your reputation for never dancing with the same man twice is not constrained to Ostwick, I hope you know_ , she says, to which she thinks, _neither is my spite_ , but she does as she’s told nonetheless.

Her first partner is a friend of Reilly’s husband, a nobleman in Tevinter, not a magister, not quite so noble as that; besides, everyone knows the Trevelyans don’t fraternize with mages. He’s older than her, by ten years, at least, and his words flow sweet and flattering like the champagne passed around the ballroom between dances, and he calls her _Lady Trevelyan_ , he’s polite, at least until she insists _call me Ellinor_ , and then he does, just _Ellinor_ , and he laughs when he admits he doesn’t know all the steps to their dance, and he welcomes her to teach him, _they say you’re the loveliest dancer from the Free Marches_ , he tells her; _I’m sure they say more than that_ , she replies, and he smiles, and she smiles, and when the music stops and he asks her for another dance, she says yes.

She doesn’t take a second partner after that.

When there is a ball in Minrathous a month later, she attends with him. It is the first time in her life that she does not attend a dance alone. She dances with him in Minrathous. In Hercinia. Wycome. Tantervale. It’s later at a ball at the Trevelyan estate in Ostwick, though, where he finishes a dance on his knee and gives her a ring and asks her to be his bride, and she thinks foolishly that she will never dance with another man again.

When she is twenty and they are only months away from their wedding, she travels alone to Perivantium after visiting Lyssa in Val Royeaux with her parents. She is to stay with Reilly and her husband, but the hour is late when she arrives and she requests that her carriage bring her to her betrothed’s instead. His estate is dark and the servant who greets her at the door is nervous, _Lady Trevelyan_ , he says tensely, _we had not expected_ — but she only looks back at him, quiet, confused, lets him take her coat, pushes forward into the house until she’s met with distant candlelight, low whispers, murmurs and movement and a whisper of a woman’s name that’s not her own, and she understands, and she leaves.

Her mother berates her when she learns she’s broken it off. _It happens to everyone, Ellinor_ , and _his is a good house to marry into, Ellinor_ , and _Ellinor, if you believe you’ll be given a chance for marriage like this again, you’re mistaken_ but she doesn’t listen, her mother’s words sink deep but she doesn’t heed them, _not this time_ , and she exchanges her heeled dancing shoes for flatter house slippers, roomy traveling shoes, hardy riding boots.

She does not attend another dance in the Free Marches or Tevinter again.

And when Ellinor Trevelyan, Inquisitor and Herald of Andraste, is twenty-six years old, when she has not danced in six years’ time, she is for the first time in her life in the position to ask for a dance and not wait to be asked. Her Commander declines. Countless noblemen ask her instead, and she ignores her mother’s warnings in her mind as she takes to the ballroom floor.

She says yes to every one.

* * *

_Commander,_

_Please give Sister Leliana my thanks, as the agents she’s lent us have proven skilled and helpful. We’re pushing west of Elmridge now. We may have a lead._

_Lieutenant Beth Forrester_

* * *

“Ellie.”

She rolls over, slow, groggy, tired. _Feet hurt_ , she thinks, _makes sense_ , and for once she’s grateful for the thick fleece throws, the heavy Orlesian duvet Josephine had ordered for her bed; she’s only in her underclothes and the air in her bedroom is quite cool from the open door—

She cracks an eye open.

_Why is the door open?_

“Ellie!”

She opens both eyes now, _it’s bright and it’s cold_ and she scrambles into a sitting position to find Sera sitting cross-legged at the foot of her bed.

“ _Fuck_ , Sera, what are you—how did you—”

“Climbed around the wall through the window,” the elf answers simply. “Would’ve come ‘round front if Cully didn’t drop a couple swords by your door, though.”

Ellinor rolls her eyes, looking past Sera to find that the glass doors to her room are indeed wide open. _How did you scale the wall?_ she almost asks, but _no, I don’t want to know_.

“He only put guards by my room since the assassination attempt on Josie,” she grumbles, lying down again and pulling her duvet over her head. “And we’ve sorted that out now, anyway.”

“Just saying,” Sera continues. Her voice is muffled from the duvet over Ellinor’s ears, but she knows her behavior won’t turn her friend away. _If anything, she’ll just stick around longer now_. “Wasn’t _you_ they were trying to do in, right?”

“Shh,” Ellinor mumbles from beneath the covers. “Too early to talk about him.”

“Just _saying_ ,” Sera repeats, and Ellinor groans, “maybe he’s a little _worried_ about y—”

“Sera!” she growls, and Sera snorts a giggle.

She’s not very intimidating buried in a nest of blankets with an elf sitting atop her.

_But I try._

“Tits, Ellie, just calm down for a sec, yeah?” her friend huffs. “Brought you coffee. Black. Hot and bitter, like you.”

She shoves a single hand out from beneath the covers and is rewarded with a full, hot cup placed in it.

“ _And_ I brought cookies!” Sera says proudly, and it’s not until she says so that Ellinor realizes how hungry she is.

 _It must be late morning at least_ , she thinks, pulling the coffee into her blanket tent and sticking her other hand out instead.

“Uh-uh,” the elf says hastily. “Only if you promise not to be bitchy. Only allowed to be bitchy in the morning, right? Past noon now.”

“Past _noon_?” Ellinor nearly spills her coffee throwing the covers off for a second time. “How did I—”

“Got in pretty late, remember?” Sera asks. “Heard you and Cully didn’t roll in from Or-lame until sunrise. D’you have fun? Dance a lot? Kill anyone?”

She takes a sip of her coffee and snatches a cookie from Sera’s hand, nibbling a bit before wiping the crumbs from her mouth and sighing. “No. Yes. And almost.” It’s enough to earn her one of Sera’s signature giggles, and for that, she smiles.

“That what you wore?” Sera asks, pointing to the golden gown she’s dropped carelessly on the floor—alongside heeled shoes kicked off without second thought—the night before. _Or rather, this morning_. She nods, chewing on another bite of her cookie. “Bit showy,” Sera comments, wrinkling her nose at the discarded dress. “Pity you didn’t get to kill anyone. Did Cully?”

Ellinor raises her eyebrows dryly, sipping her coffee. “I thought he might. The judge we needed to help Josie got a little handsy with me, so we both pulled a blade on him. But we didn’t kill him, because...well, we need him. For Josie.”

“He was probably disappointed,” Sera smirks. “Wants to be your knight in fuzzy armor, yeah?”

Ellinor glares at her. “I don’t know where you get your ideas of—”

“All right, all right,” she says, sticking her tongue out at her. “Whatever. It was a joke, Ellie.”

She frowns anyway, _some joke_ , she’d heard similar comments from Bull and Varric lately and couldn’t wrap her mind around the idea. She and Cullen never spoke outside of work matters and her wariness toward him—though admittedly less strong lately—was well known among her inner circle. And yes, they’d conversed extensively the night before, and yes, she’d found him to be softer and more amicable than she’d previously thought as the night went on, but her friends hadn’t been there. They didn’t know, didn’t understand.

“Lyssa was there,” she says abruptly, changing the subject, wiping the thoughtful look from her face as soon as realized it was there.

“ _Lyssa_ was at the party?” snorts Sera. “Little lady prissy Lyssie? Fun reunion for you, I’m sure.”

“Quite.”

“What’s new with her, anyway? Life must be pretty boring without a Jenny in Val Royeaux.”

She almost laughs. _But I don’t know_ , she thinks; she’d hardly spoken to her, hadn’t caught a glimpse of her husband, Mathieu at the party, didn’t speak of Avery or even Bryony. _We hardly spoke at all_ , she realizes, and yet Lyssa’s parting words echo in her mind.

 _The disdain you carry for others is not always reciprocated_.

“Nothing,” she mutters; she knows Sera can tell she’s lying but for once the elf doesn’t press any further.

She yawns, shaking her bangs out of her eyes and stretching before hopping off the bed. “By the way,” she says, traipsing back out the open door to Ellinor’s balcony, “Josie wants you in her office. Says you have a—” she emphasizes the words by wiggling her fingers, “— _war council_.”

Ellinor raises an eyebrow. “When?”

She swings her leg over the balcony rail, shrugs. “Now, probably.”

* * *

_Jenny, Val Chevin,_

_Got a Judge near you who needs to learn a lesson. Goes by “Auld” as in “Old Fart” as in “can’t keep his hands where they belong.” Friend needs him for something first. Let you know when he’s not needed anymore._

_Jenny, ~~Val Royeaux~~ Skyhold_

* * *

She’s in Josephine’s office mere minutes after Sera left her, dressed hastily, coffee half done and still in her hand. Her hair is a wreck from last night’s style; she’s combed through what she can but _I’ve always been helpless with braids and_ —

“Ellinor!” Josephine greets her with a grin—one that quickly dissipates over the state of her hair.

“Help,” she croaks, and in seconds the ambassador has pulled her into a chair.

“It is a bit of a mess,” she says slowly, assessing the tangles. “But yes. I can do something with this.”

“You’re divine, Josie.”

She works quickly, nimble fingers making their way through Ellinor’s hair with a tortoiseshell comb. “It’s done,” Ellinor says, suddenly remembering the night before. “It’s all set, I mean—we met with the minister and the judge, they’ve agreed to help. The Du Paraquettes—”

“—will return to their former station,” Josephine finishes. Ellinor can’t see her face as she works on her hair behind her, but she can hear the smile in her voice.

“How did you—”

“Cullen told me,” she says, “this morning, when I went to the hall for breakfast.” She comes around her now, taking her hand in her own and squeezing it tightly. “Ellinor, I cannot—my family and I cannot thank you enough. We owe you—”

“You owe me nothing,” she says, shaking her head, returning her smile, but then, “you saw him this morning?” she asks, raising her eyebrows. “We didn’t get in until sunrise.” Josephine shrugs, returning behind her to begin her braid. “Doesn’t he ever _sleep_?” she asks. “That’s not exactly _healthy_ , and—”

“Ellinor,” the ambassador says gently, “you could always share your concerns with him directly, if it worries you.”

She frowns. “It doesn’t,” she says quickly, and Josephine continues in silence. She works carefully at her braid, in crown style as she usually wears it, and Ellinor stares at the door knowing at any moment Leliana and Cullen should cross through in time for their council meeting.

It’s the door to the courtyard that opens, though; she hears them before she sees them, speaking in hushed tones and hoovering in the archway, half outside and half in the office.

“—don’t have a problem with you borrowing my agents, Commander,” says Leliana, “but we must take care to separate personal matters from matters of the Inquisition. It’s not—”

“They’ve already got a lead and they’re so close,” Cullen presses, and even Josephine pauses, stilling her fingers in Ellinor’s hair. “And anyway, it’s not personal to _me_ , but you know how important it is to—”

He stops when they enter Josephine’s office, faces rosy and bright from the cold. He looks tired. _Of course_ , she thinks, _he didn’t sleep_ , but he and Leliana are surprised to find her in Josephine’s office; she can read it on their faces.

“Lady Trevelyan,” he says suddenly, softly, and she blushes. She’s sitting in Josephine’s desk chair with sleep still in her eyes and her hair half braided and he’s _staring_ at her. “Good morning—um, good afternoon, that is.”

“Good afternoon,” she mumbles; she’d _leave_ if she could, march right into the war room ahead of them with her head held high and her shoulders back but Josephine’s still working on her hair and she’s caught, unable to move and unable to run.

“We’ll meet you when you’re ready,” Leliana says with a tight-lipped smile, taking Cullen by the arm and pulling him down the hall.

They’re waiting patiently when Josephine and Ellinor follow in a few minutes later, her hair neatly braided and the flush across her cheeks gone.

“Thank you for making the time to meet this afternoon,” Josephine begins, straight to business. “I trust Sera delivered my message to you all on time? I couldn’t find my usual runner, but she seemed uncharacteristically...eager...to assist.”

“Yes,” Cullen says, and Leliana nods in agreement.

“No,” Ellinor grumbles, though they’d all seen her partially finished hair just minutes earlier and probably knew.

“Well,” Josephine says, smile faltering for only a second. “Well, anyway, I’ve already thanked you each personally, but Ellinor and Cullen—you are both _heroes_ to the Montilyet family, and I haven’t written my parents yet but I am certain they will—”

“It was nothing, Josephine,” Cullen says, and Ellinor nods.

“For you, Josie, anything,” she says softly.

The ambassador beams at each of them, but her warm smile tightens a bit when she continues. “Regrettably, that is not the only reason I have called this meeting.” Ellinor crosses her arms, and Cullen places his hand on the pommel of his sword thoughtfully. “Well,” Josephine continues. “Ellinor...did you enjoy your return to the social scene?”

She shrugs. “I...well, I got to dance a lot.”

“It’s true,” Cullen says before turning red and quickly reaching his hand around to rub his neck. “I mean...she did.”

“And Cullen,” Josephine says, “is it too much for me to hope you enjoyed the gala as well?”

He drops his arm to his waist, crosses his arms to mirror Ellinor’s. “It is,” he says, frowning, and again, the ambassador’s smile falters only for a moment—if Ellinor had blinked, she might have missed it.

“My agents have uncovered a plot to assassinate Empress Celene,” Leliana says, continuing for Josephine. “And we have reason to believe the assassination is planned for ball at her home in Halamshiral in two months’ time.”

“Oh no,” Cullen mutters, pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose, and something tells Ellinor it’s not Celene’s life he’s concerned about. “Don’t tell me—”

“I have procured invitations to her ball on behalf of the Inquisition,” Josephine says.

 _And there we go_.

“And I take it we _all_ must attend?” Cullen asks tersely, gritting his teeth, and Josephine nods.

“Ellinor must be there, of course,” she says. “And Leliana and I are no strangers to the Winter Palace. In fact, we know it better than anyone else in the Inquisition, except perhaps for Vivienne.”

“But I—”

“If my agents are correct, and I daresay they are, Commander,” Leliana says, placing her hands on the war table determinedly, “then the Inquisitions forces must be present for security. And that includes you.”

“But—” Cullen tries again, and Ellinor throws her hands into the air.

“He doesn’t know how to _dance_ ,” she insists, and Cullen nods, reddening.

Leliana shrugs. “He will not need to. Josephine can give lessons, should any of your companions choose to accept them, but no one will be _required_ to dance.”

Ellinor gapes at her. “He doesn’t even speak Orlesian!” she sputters, and Cullen nods again, blushing, not insulted by her outburst but... _grateful, maybe?_ she thinks.

“It’s true,” Cullen agrees, nodding firmly. “I don’t. So perhaps I can help in some other way, maybe—”

“That is no matter,” says Josephine. She doesn’t even bat an eye. “There is time to learn. And fortunately, many of us here possess the skill you… _lack_ …Commander.”

Ellinor sighs. “Well, I suppose Leliana—”

“I will be far too busy preparing my agents over the next several weeks,” the spymaster says calmly. “But you, Ellinor, are well versed in a number of languages, I understand.”

“Well, I—”

“One of them being Orlesian, no? So I am sure you can find some time to help Cullen with the basics. It is a ball, after all, he will not need to know any more than introductions and pleasantries.”

She glances at Cullen as he stands across from her, red-faced, sullen, staring intently at the map before them as though it might save him from continuing their conversation.

“Fine,” Ellinor agrees. “Just the basics. If that’s all, I have to go...well, I have to go.”

Leliana smirks from across from her, she knows it’s an inconvenience for her, her only saving grace is knowing Cullen will certainly dread taking lessons in Orlesian just as much as she’ll dread giving them. _Perhaps more_ , by the look on his face as she makes her way out of the room, granting only a nod to Josephine’s sympathetic smile.

“Josephine,” Cullen says abruptly, and she actually turns around in the doorway to look back. He furrows his brow, eyes still downcast to avoid her gaze. “Before you go—a word, please, if you have the time.”

* * *

_Lieutenant,_

_That is good news. Report back when you know more._

_—C.S.R._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also, yes, the title was inspired by the beatles song "with a little help from my friends" because it's a mood for ellinor + sera and ellinor + josie in this chapter


	17. Blue

“You know, Vivienne is a talented alchemist,” Dorian huffs, looking about the room before resting his gaze on her as she hovers above the small mortar and pestle at her table by the fire.

It hasn’t taken long for her quarters to go from sparse, undecorated to lavish, warm, full—mostly thanks to the eyes (and coinpurse) of Vivienne and Josephine, and Dorian himself, on occasion. Where the floors had once been bare, cool stone, dusty, now they’re covered generously in thick plush carpeting— _only an Antivan rug will do_ , Josephine had insisted, to which Vivienne wholeheartedly agreed. The intricately stained floor-to-ceiling windows had been quickly framed with delicate Orlesian curtains that Ellinor never shuts herself—on occasion a servant does, only for her to draw them open once more, savor the mountainside, breathe the fresh air. Her bed is styled as the one she’d had in Ostwick; they’d granted her that much—four poster, canopied, with thick curtains that, like with her windows, she never closed. She’s acquired countless blankets—some thin, elaborate, embroidered like those given to her by Dorian and imported from Tevinter, some light and delicate like the one sent by the Montilyet family as a gift, but she prefers the shearling throws, thick and soft and warm and undeniably Fereldan, an offering of gratitude from the people of Redcliffe.

Her ornate wooden desk sits in the corner covered with letters and reports—more than usual, now, as they’d only just returned from a days-long excursion to the Fallow Mire the evening before and she’d hardly had time to skim them, much less sign off on any. A stack of clean dishes sits in one corner—the only remnants of Sera’s many cookies. A stack of letters sits in the other. Most are from Lyssa, from before the gala, unopened and unread and yet she hasn’t thrown them out. _Not yet_. Behind the desk are her books, her lute—she’s been taking lessons with Maryden and improving with steady practice.

But perhaps Ellinor’s favorite touches to the room are her own—bunches of herbs, flowers, and weeds hanging upside-down to dry, lining the mantle of her little fireplaces, stacked neatly along a small alchemy table, poured generously into little glass jars and bottles scattered about the room. It gave her quarters a fragrant scent, always changing depending on the ingredients she was working with that day or what she’d brought back from her most recent trip. Today, it smells of fresh-cut blood lotus brought back from their brief excursion to the Fallow Mire.

“I know,” she replies. “But Vivienne doesn’t make tea with her herbs—I always make tea for Josie. And you. And she’d _never_ make rashvine poison for Sera.”

“And you would?” Dorian asks, amused.

She holds up her mortar in response. “What do you think this is?”

He wrinkles his nose, and she continues crushing the little leaves into a paste in silence.

“Aren’t you supposed to meet with Cullen today?” he asks finally; _he doesn’t even try to hide his amusement_. “Something about...Orlesian lessons, isn’t that right?”

She frowns. “I am. Later, anyway. Once he’s finished drilling his recruits half to death, or whatever he does in the mornings.” Truthfully, she knows he’s been kinder with his training since Haven; she’d witnessed a number of sessions and drills crossing the yard in the mornings, _a marked improvement_ she’d thought, at least since she’d sparred him once before in the snow what felt like ages before, and she noticed it, appreciated the efforts, could never, _would_ never tell him so.

“I believe one of the captains is running the drills today,” Dorian says, bored, curling his mustache ends between his fingers while gazing out her windows.

She hardly looks up from her mortar. “Oh?”

“It’s Tuesday,” Dorian says, as though it should be obvious, and _now_ she looks up at him, confused. “Cullen meets with a council of mages on Tuesdays to—”

“For _what_?” she demands, _growls_ , almost; she knew few of Fiona’s mages by name and though she’d grown more amicable towards Cullen in recent weeks _old habits die hard_ and it takes nothing more than the words _Cullen_ and _mages_ uttered in the same sentence to make her fists clench, her shoulders straighten.

Dorian merely snorts.

“Oh, nothing like _that_ ,” he chuckles, and she continues to glare at him hotly, “quite the opposite, really. Truly, I’d assumed you’d known, seeing as you _are_ the Inquisitor and he _is_ the commander of your forces.” When she still makes no acknowledgment, he _tuts_ haughtily, raises his eyebrows, does that little knowing smirk where no matter how much she adores his friendship she could still wring his neck at the very hint of it. “On Tuesday mornings,” he explains at last, “Cullen meets with a council of mages to ensure their accommodations are satisfactory—to take inventory of their supplies, and such—and to see if there have been any little mage-templar squabbles, anything like that that he needs to root out.”

 _He_ meets _with them._

“And then he takes suggestions to their training—he’s begun integrated drills between his soldiers and the mages, you see, to ‘optimize effectiveness’ or whatever he wanted to call it. It’s quite diplomatic, really, I’d thought it was Josephine’s idea at first, but it seems our dear commander really isn’t _quite_ as dim as he appears.”

He turns back from the window to face her again.

She’s still gaping.

“You really didn’t know?” he asks, and she shakes her head, finally composing herself, wiping her hands quickly with a cloth, scraping the rashvine paste into a small vial before carefully adding an equal measure of water. He’s silent as she corks the vial, shakes it rapidly, and labels it _Rashvine—Sera_ with a bit of glued parchment. She’s finished, then, _early this time_ , she’s already stuffed several tea sachets with honeycomb and rosehips for Josephine and a few more with elfroot and wolfsbane for Cassandra, who’d sustained a significant bruise on her leg from a Chasind warrior just days before. She looks out the window— _before noon_ —and at last back to Dorian.

“He was so upset when I recruited them,” she says softly.

For a moment, it’s silent.

“Well.”

_Dorian always has the last word._

“He _was_. And he was a fool for it.”

She laughs dryly, but he’s not finished.

“And once in a while,” he continues, “a fool sees the error of his ways and would like to atone for his behavior.”

 _The errors of his ways, maybe_ , she thinks; Cullen’s no expert in magic despite what the Order would have had him believe, and training the mages and soldiers together was a strategic move. One he undoubtedly could not make without support from both sides but _oh, Commander, you may see your errors but will you ever see the pain you’ve brought upon others?_ They’re personable now, almost _friendly_ , even, but his previous sentiments echo in her mind even now. _Apostates_ he’d spat on numerous occasions, lashed out at her upon her alliance with the mages in Redcliffe, berated her for pursuing Avery... _Avery_ , who she’d abandoned, _left behind_ ; her heart breaks just to think of him but _I ran out of time_ and _one day_.

“How do you know all of this?” she asks lightly, pushing her thoughts away, putting on a curious look, _hiding_. “About Commander Cullen and the mages, I mean?”

Dorian flashes her a sparkling smile. “I’ve sat in on a few of the meetings myself,” he says proudly. “They’re quaint, as would be any gatherling led by a Fereldan, I suppose. And besides that, I’ve grown quite attached to our dear commander. We play chess sometimes. Awfully boring game, but it’s amusing to see how competitive he can get.” She raises an eyebrow at him, but he only smiles in return. “I won’t keep you, Ellinor. I’m sure he’s finished with his meeting by now, and _someone_ —” he points at her, “—has a lot of _bonjour_ -ing and _enchanté_ -ing and _pardonnez-moi, je ne suis qu’un Fereldan simple d’esprit_ -ing to teach.”

“Oh _stop_ ,” she laughs, throwing her cloth at him, and he ducks down the stairs before she can throw anything else.

The sun is high above the towers lining the battlements when she exits the main keep through Solas’ study; they’d agreed to meet for their first lesson after lunch and _it isn’t yet noon_ but perhaps they could begin early.

_And if we start before lunch, then there’s a way out if things go sour._

“Inquisitor,” nods a soldier, offering a sharp salute as she passes her by on the stone bridge.

Ellinor raises her hand in greeting. “Private,” she says, nodding toward the tower before her. “Has the commander finished his meeting with the mages this morning?”

The private shifts back and forth on her feet.

_Unless Dorian was just making that up…_

“Your Worship,” she says, looking down briefly before snapping back into eye contact. “Commander Cullen did not meet with the mages today. He is...indisposed.”

“Indisposed?” Ellinor repeats, thoughts flashing back to shaking hands, pale skin, reddened eyes at war councils, hasty dismissals from Cassandra upon her inquiries.

“I’m afraid so, Your Worship,” the private replies. “He’s asked that he not be disturbed for the morning, said he’s got a meeting this afternoon that’s more—well, it’s with _you_ , really. I think he wanted to prepare. Or try and rest up, maybe.”

Ellinor bites her lip thoughtfully. “Thank you, private,” she says, nodding her dismissal. “I think I’ll go and...check on him, I suppose.”

“I’m not sure if—” the private sputters, catching herself, shaking her head. “I mean. Yes, Your Worship.”

Ellinor narrows her eyes at her. “As you were,” she says carefully, slowly, moving past her now and crossing the bridge to Cullen’s tower.

She’s about to knock on the door when it occurs to her that she’s never _visited_ Cullen’s tower before; they’ve spent hours across from one another in the war room, hours in a damned _carriage_ to _Orlais_ together, but neither has ever set foot in the other’s office, and suddenly she’s hesitating, questioning, but _no_ , the private had said he was unwell. _It’s the least I can do_ , she thinks, raising her fist at last for a firm knock, then again, and a third time.

There is no answer.

She tries again to no avail, and finally, she turns the handle. _Unlocked_.

“Commander?” she asks warily, stepping inside.

It’s dark, even for the stream of sunlight peering through the floorboards from somewhere overhead. The windows are few, she notes, and narrow, letting in only bits of light that give way to the dusty expanse of the room. It smells stale. Acidic, almost, foul, and she peers further inside. There’s little furniture from what she can tell—a couple bookshelves on the far wall, full to the brim, if the dim lighting revealed anything, and stacks of books and papers lining the rest of the walls. In the center is a large desk, covered too in stacks of papers and ledgers and books and—

“I _told_ you I didn’t want to be dis—”

_Cullen._

She hardly recognizes his voice with how hoarse and low it is. It doesn’t matter, anyway. He’s no longer speaking to her.

He’s retching.

Horribly.

When her eyes adjust, she sees he’s seated beside the desk, hunched over, a bucket on the floor between his arms even as he leans his weight onto his hands and suddenly she understands the smell, _he’s sick_ , and now even in the dim lightning she can see the pale sheen to his skin, the way his shirt clings to his body with sweat, the way he shakes after every heave into the bucket and she wants to help, wants to ask what she can do, but she can’t.

And so she stands, frozen in wait, until at last the retching has ended and he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, not meeting her eyes. _He looks exhausted_ , she thinks, and something else, too. Defeated, maybe. _Shamed_.

For a long time, he keeps his head down.

“Lady Trevelyan,” he says miserably, finally, voice still weak and shaking and she nearly flinches upon hearing the pain and self-loathing in his words. “Is there something I can do for you?”

“I just,” she starts, and she realizes she isn’t at _all_ sure of what she should say to him. _Dorian said you met with the mages and I didn’t believe him_ is hardly her concern anymore but _your soldier said you were ill and I was curious_ sounds cruel.

“Are you all right?” she whispers at last.

His amber eyes, sunken and reddening around the irises, bore into her. “I will be fine,” he says.

 _I’m not so sure,_ she wants to counter.

“Can I at least—”

“Please,” he says, voice quiet, but ever-firm. “If there is nothing I can help you with, I would prefer to be left alone.”

* * *

_Commander,_

_Our search has proven successful. We're posted alongside the southern Frostbacks biding our time, but we have not yet made our move. Please advise._

_We wait on your word,_

_Lieutenant Beth Forrester_

* * *

The great hall of the main keep has long since emptied when Ellinor leaves her quarters to make for the kitchens. Most should be in bed by now, she notes, and those who weren’t would certainly have made their way to the Herald’s Rest. She hasn’t eaten. After seeing Cullen in the morning, she’d rushed to Cassandra. The Seeker remained tight-lipped as always, offering no explanation, no further conversation at all—only a short nod, a murmured _I’ll see to him_ before she’d pushed past toward the tower Ellinor had only just left. She’d seen Leliana briefly in the main hall; upon her mention of Cullen’s illness, the spymaster merely shook her head, _it is not for me to divulge, Ellinor_ , and though she’d asked Josephine as well, the ambassador admitted she knew no more than Ellinor did. And all Ellinor had known is that he’d been ill. She’d _always_ known.

But now, _now_ , she can no longer continue to overlook it.

She resolves to ask him next time she sees him.

And when she hurries down the stairs, stomach growling from hours of catching up on reports and hardly a break from her work between late morning and late night, and opens the interior door to the kitchens, she realizes that _next time_ comes sooner than she’d thought.

“Commander!” she says, caught off guard, coming to a stop only just as she’s crossed the threshold, and his eyes snap up at her.

“Lady Trevelyan,” he replies quickly, placing his hands behind his back.

 _He looks better_ , she thinks, _at least a little_. A bit of color has returned to his cheeks, and he’s dressed in his armor once more. “How are you?” she asks; she’s not sure what else to say and yet—

“Fine,” he snaps, and at the way she bites her lip, his eyes soften. “I’m sorry,” he says, gently. “I’m...doing better, I should say.”

“I’m glad.”

She is. She wants to ask him now, _what’s wrong?_ or _why are you sick?_ but suddenly it’s not the time or the place. He’s doing better. _For now, that’s enough._

“You haven’t eaten yet?” she asks instead, gesturing at the kitchen around them. It’s late, nearly ten, if she had to guess; dinner had long since ended but Marie kept the shelves stocked with leftovers, fruits, breads, hand pies, whatever she could spare to hold the keep’s residents until morning.

“Too busy,” he replies with a shrug.

 _He’s lying,_ she can tell, she _knows_ ; today’s he’s been ill but she’s seen him retreat to the kitchens late at night before _._ _He forgets to eat_ is the truth, though he’d never admit it and she’d never accuse.

“Anyway,” he adds quickly, nodding at her. “You’re not one to talk. You’re here as well.”

She shrugs, feeling the blood rise to her cheeks. “Too busy,” she echoes; the words have only just left her mouth when she realizes how hypocritical she must seem.

 _He hasn’t elaborated on this morning._ She doubts he will. But he seems in better spirits.

She certainly hopes so.

“Hm,” he _tuts_ at her answer, reaching for a plate and handing her one as well. “To be honest, I’m surprised there isn’t someone who’s sole job is to ensure the Inquisitor has a healthy diet.”

_Good spirits._

She laughs, smiles, _I’m glad,_ she thinks to herself truthfully. Genuinely. She reaches for fruit, a slice of bread. “The position is vacant for now, if you’d like to inquire for the job,” she jokes as he adds a meat pie and an apple to his own plate.

“Maybe I should.”

His face turns red as soon as the words leave his mouth.

“We can, if you want,” she says, quickly backtracking. “I mean, you can. I mean, we can—we already need to meet daily for—”

“Orlesian stuff,” Cullen mutters.

“—Orlesian stuff. If you’d like to make it over dinner, that’s fine, and then,” she gathers herself, breathes, smiles, “you can keep an eye on my eating habits, if you so choose.”

He chuckles at that; she’s saved him the embarrassment. _Or I can keep an eye on yours_ , she thinks, softening; it’s not her business and yet she finds herself worried. _Stop that._

“Starting tomorrow,” she clarifies. “For the Orlesian lessons. Today, we don’t need to, because of...well...” She trails off, pulling a stool up to the wooden table in the center of the kitchen.

“I wanted to talk to you about today,” he says quietly, joining her, and she shakes her head.

“You don’t have—”

“I owe you an explanation. One that is long overdue, I’m afraid, and that is foolishness on my part. I hope you’ll forgive me.”

She swallows. She’s nervous.

“You know I was a templar,” he begins, pauses, shakes his head, “obviously,” he adds under his breath, and she nods. “Your sister is as well, from what I recall. I suppose you have a general understanding of...what templar recruits undergo when they become full members of the order, then.” He looks to her for acknowledgment, for any sign of understanding.

“No,” she replies, shaking her head. “Bryony—my sister, that is—she wasn’t close to me. We spoke little after she left to begin training. Less after Avery.”

“Yes, you’re right, forgive me,” he says, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment before opening them again. “You’re not close with your sisters. Any of them.” She nods. “Well, the Order takes—you’re familiar with lyrium, of course.”

“Yes.”

“Templars take lyrium regularly to enhance their abilities.”

“Yes, I actually…” She looks up at him brightly, recalling finally a long-ago trip to the Hinterlands. “Yes!” she says, and Cullen looks at her in surprise. “Yes, I remember because Solas told me once that mages only take lyrium to restore their magic and it doesn’t affect them otherwise, but templars—we came across a few in the Hinterlands, we battled them and afterward Solas had told me that…”

She stops.

He swallows. “That…?”

She shakes her head. “You’re not.”

“What did he tell you?”

“That they’d been weakened by lyrium withdrawal,” she said slowly, in disbelief. “That they’d had no supply after they’d parted from the Order. That it’d led to their demise, if indirectly.” He nods. “Don’t say you’re not—”

“I’m not taking it,” he says quietly, and suddenly any appetite she’d had previously disappears. “I stopped. Months ago, before you even—”

“Why?”

He shrugs, shaking his head. “I just can’t, not anymore,” he says, amber eyes meeting hers firmly. “I assure you, it’s—I’m fine, most of the time. I won’t let today happen again. It won’t be a distraction, and I won’t let it get in the way of my work.”

 _I'm fine_ , he said, like the irritability she'd seen in him before didn't distance him from others, like his fingers didn't shake moving markers over the map on the war table, like she hadn't seen him wince in pain at the slightest sound before.

“But it’s hurting you,” she whispers.

“I can endure it. It’s my burden to bear.”

“But you shouldn’t—”

“Lady Treveylan, I cannot chain myself to the Order any longer!” he presses, standing, raising his voice, and the shaking returns, and the doubt, and the pain in his eyes. “I have done—I have done... _so_ many things, things I can’t even...I don’t wish to speak about right now. I am not a part of them anymore. I _won’t_ be. I…” he swallows, “surely you of all people could support that.”

He turns, then, makes for the door, leaving her sitting alone at the table.

“I wasn’t going to say that you shouldn’t be doing this,” she tells him, quietly. He pauses. _He heard me_. And still he leaves, closing the door behind him.

_You shouldn’t bear it alone._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i always mean to add notes to my chapters to update on other things but...i usually forget. anyway this time i wanted to mention i wrote [a little ficlet for ellinor](https://bitchesofostwick.tumblr.com/post/183150821568/hello-for-dadwc-the-wheel-of-fortune-your) a couple weeks ago. i guess it takes place somewhere around chapter 14? idk. the theme is ellinor's denial, obviously. and even more importantly, i wanted to mention the [absolutely stunning art](https://bitchesofostwick.tumblr.com/post/183238519643/ellinor-trevelyan-modest-in-temper-bold-in-deed) my dear friend [frecklef0x](https://frecklef0x.tumblr.com) surprised me with of ellinor last week! it's so lovely i couldn't not link it here as well. anyway, see you all next tuesday!


	18. Past Lives

They have six weeks until they travel to Halamshiral. It’s enough time for Josephine and Vivienne to arrange a uniform for them to wear—six of them, anyway, Josephine and Leliana and himself and Ellinor’s expected trio of chosen companions: Sera, Cassandra, and Dorian. They’ve hardly undergone their jacket fittings (Cullen is spared from this, to his relief, an unforeseen benefit from attending the Wiscotte gala just two weeks prior) and Sera’s already asked no less than four times whether she can tears the sleeves off her jacket and wear it as a vest instead, to which Josephine replies each time, _no!_ and then _even if I said yes, you would ruin the seams and look like a street urchin,_ and although Cullen thinks it’s quite obvious that’s Sera’s point, he stays quiet through it all. Cassandra complains the designs are too restricting; he quite sympathizes with that although at least now he’s prepared, knows what it’s like to feel at once packed into threads, suffocating beneath the stiff fabric and then again naked under the prying eyes of Orlesian nobles. Only Dorian seems to have little complaint; when Leliana teases, _satisfied that red will make you look good?_ he responds _my dear, you are mistaken, it’s_ me _that makes_ red _look good._ Sera grumbles _don’t see why Ellie doesn’t have to suffer in these like the rest of us_ and Josephine explains that _the Inquisitor must steal the show, Sera_ and that a gown would be made for her instead, and that it likely wouldn’t be ready until just before they leave, and for a very brief moment Cullen’s actually relieved because the last time he saw her in a gown he drew his sword half a second too late when he should have protected her and sat in awful silence through hours of carriage riding when he should have made friendly conversation and told her he hated dancing when he should have said _yes, of course_. At least if the gown’s not ready until they leave, he won’t have to risk any of those already unlikely events occurring again.

He thinks the Orlesian lessons between himself and Ellinor have been successful so far, though they’ve only had two—the first they hold over dinner together in a quiet corner of the garden. She teaches him hello ( _bonjour_ ) and goodbye ( _au revoir_ ) and yes and no ( _oui_ and _non_ , though she complains many times that it’s not simply _wee_ and _no_ ; he tries again and again to match her own pronunciation but quite frankly, he can’t tell the difference) and nice to meet you ( _enchanté_ , which she’s forced to accept he will never master— _throatier_ , she insists, _like you’ve swallowed a marble but you’d sooner die than admit it_ , and he can’t help but snort a laugh and say _congratulations, Lady Trevelyan, you’ve pinpointed the essence of the Orlesian language_ ). He asks once if she’ll teach him something useful like introducing himself and that earns him a lesson not in the Orlesian language but in the Game; she replies sharply _absolutely not, Commander, all of them will already know your name and to assume otherwise is to admit you are beneath them._

He doesn’t ask a second time.

Their next lesson is far shorter; they sit across from one another in the kitchens over bowls of lamb stew and cups of wine but Ellinor cuts the lesson short hardly any sooner than they’ve begun, declaring, _you seem unwell, Commander_ , which of course he’d vehemently denied and she’d replied forcefully _don’t lie_ , but _is it really a lie when you’ve said the same to yourself enough times that you believe it?_ he wonders. He doesn’t argue again and though she doesn’t pry, he sees the look on her face, _doubt_ , he guesses, _maybe disgust_ , can feel her eyes on him when he dips his head to force down a bite of stew, sees her glance at his hands for any sign of tremors when he straightens again—there are none, but his head has ached all day and truth be told, he’d far prefer the solitude of his office in which to let the symptoms run their course, but he stays, _she works so hard and seldom sits for a meal_ and if his presence can somehow provide any remedy to that, it would bring him some peace of mind. She’s noted his condition and adjusts the volume of her voice accordingly; while they continue to chat about recruit training or her recent trip to the Fallow Mire over their meal, she speaks more softly now, takes care not to clank her spoon too hard against her bowl, glares at Marie when she slams the oven door too hard and he winces at the noise. He wonders what’s brought this sensitivity in her but doesn’t dare ask; _of course_ , he sees after second thought, _only right for her to try and preserve my health_ , after all, they all needed to, and _a weakness in one part of the Inquisition is a weakness in the entire organization._ He waits for her to finish her meal and does his best to eat as well, but as soon as she’s done and he suggests again that they pick up their lesson from the night before, she shakes her head. _You’ll hardly learn if you’re feeling ill, Commander_ , she says with a sad smile, _a pitiful smile_ , he decides; she teases but her words bite and he’s never been one to deal well with failure regardless of how disinclined he may have been to the assignment.

He doesn’t wish to learn Orlesian. But what’s more, he doesn’t wish to be a weakness to the Inquisition.

_Or a disappointment to her._

They have six weeks until they travel to Halamshiral and Cullen has learned about as much of the language as an Orlesian toddler.

This comes, of course, as a great source of humor for Dorian.

“Forgive me if I misunderstand, Commander,” he says as Cullen sets his pieces along the chessboard in the garden; it’s always _Commander_ , so rarely ever just _Cullen_ , and he has suspicion that the mage does it for no other purpose than to annoy him. “But you’re saying you’ve spent two night studying with Ellinor and the most you can say is ‘hello’ and ‘goodbye’?”

“No,” he grunts, crossing his arms. It’s hardly worth mentioning the negligible amount of words he knows in addition to that, so he says nothing more, waiting as the mage places his own pieces on the board, slowly, _on purpose_ , the ends of his mustache twitching up in a smirk as he continues.

“I just think it’s funny—”

“You’ve made that clear.”

“—that you’re so intent on learning in the first place. I mean, the terms you know in the common tongue are limited to ‘block with your shield’ and ‘I’m busy’ and possibly the entirety of the Chant, but—”

“I’m glad you think so highly of my vocabulary, Dorian,” he says dryly, making the first move.

“—but _Orlesian_?” Dorian makes a show of choosing which piece to move before finally pushing one across two spaces, finally allowing Cullen to continue. They play in silence for only a few minutes before Dorian snorts another laugh. “It’s rather ambitious, isn’t it? I do hope Josephine and Leliana don’t expect you to hold actual conversations, I can already _imagine_ what a disaster that might be. ‘Je m’appelle Cullen et j’aime les chiens’ over and over and—”

“Checkmate,” Cullen declares; he’d interject regardless if only to shut him up but unsurprisingly, he really has bested him. Again.

“We’ve only just begun,” Dorian says sourly, eyeing the board to see where he went wrong.

“Yes, and if you’d like to make it further next time, you might consider saving that cheat for later.”

The mage scowls; it’s not the first time Cullen’s caught him cheating and yet his tricks haven’t led him to a victory a single time. “You’re _too_ good at this, Commander,” he says dully. “Have you considered any other hobbies? Anything less...boring?”

“If you’re so bored, why is it you keep challenging me to games?”

Dorian grumbles. “Because unfortunately, I’ve come to consider you as a friend.” Cullen raises his eyebrows. “Only because you’re so boring and Fereldan, of course,” the mage adds quickly. “Spending time with you makes me look all the more glamorous.”

“Naturally,” Cullen replies.

“Anyway. When _is_ your next lesson with Ellinor?”

He takes his time resetting the board, keeping his face down so as to hide the blush that’s crept onto his face. _Not that it does any good_ ; he can hear the annoyed _huff_ Dorian gives him. “Tonight,” he answers finally. “She’s leaving—well, I suppose you’d know, since you’re going too. We wanted to fit in one more lesson before all of you leave for the Emerald Graves tomorrow.”

“Well,” Dorian mutters, stroking his mustache as he peers down at the board, contemplating his first move. “I hope tonight’s lesson goes better than your first two.”

* * *

_Our darling Ellinor,_

_You simply cannot imagine our relief and joy upon receiving the latest correspondence from your sister telling us she’d seen you and that you were not only safe, but that you are now a part of the Inquisition! We were so worried and upset after hearing what had happened at the Conclave. But it’s our understanding that the Inquisition is a growing power and has already sought to right so many wrongs across Ferelden and Orlais. We are prepared to assist in any way that we can should you need help from the Free Marches. The Trevelyans and Ostwick remain loyal to your cause._

_Please write as soon as you are able._

_With love,_

_your Mother and Father_

_Signed Bann Jaime Trevelyan and Lady Rosalind Trevelyan of Ostwick._

* * *

“I think that should be all,” Ellinor sighs, tired but smiling, and _Maker_ her smile was warm where he’d never noticed it before and he offers a smile of his own back to her as she tucks away a bit of hair that’s strayed from her braid.

It’s late.

Marie had kept a busy kitchen that night with visiting nobles from Orlais that Josephine had needed to entertain. _Can’t you see it’s too crowded in here?_ she’d snapped when Ellinor and Cullen had arrived for dinner. _Go off and eat in the hall, like everyone else_. She’d shooed them away adamantly, and, not wanting the great hall to bring them any distractions, Cullen had offered his office for the two of them to eat and continue their lesson.

That was several hours and even more Orlesian words and phrases earlier. Even the final evening guard patrol had passed through, and now the candles burn low, and they’re both tired; he can feel it in his bones and see it in her eyes. The last time—the only other time—she’d visited his office, she’d caught him ill, violently so, ashamed, _pathetic._

This time is far more pleasant.

He’s almost sorry to see her go. Especially knowing it may be another two weeks before they continue their lessons—time spent together that Cullen has grown to enjoy, look forward to, even, though he’d scarcely admit it to anyone. Least of all himself.

“What are these?” she asks softly, and he looks up to meet her brown eyes, curious, if a little weary. She’s just about finished stacking her notes and her Orlesian language texts when she’s noticed a small pile of letters from Mia sitting atop his desk. He feels his face redden immediately; he’s opened and read each and every letter countless times but still they sit, tied neatly with a bit of twine, mostly unanswered but for a few sparsely-worded responses— _everything is fine_ or _please don’t worry_ or _I’ll write more soon_.

He never did.

“Correspondence,” he answers shortly. “From my sister.”

“You have…” Her face softens instantly. He finds that his only flushes more. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know—I mean, I realize I’ve never...asked about your family.” He gives her only a half-shrug; there’d never been an opportunity and he didn’t speak of them often, anyway. “They live in Ferelden still?” she asks. “Your parents and your sister?”

“My siblings live in the South Reach currently,” he clarifies. “I have two sisters, and a brother.”

“And your parents?”

He feels as though his hands have turned cold, and his arms, and his legs. _It’s been years_ he reminds himself, pacing to the window, _a decade, nearly_ , and yet it is a wound he often leaves alone, untouched, out of sight and out of mind.

“They died,” he replies quietly. He hates the shock in her eyes, the way it turns so quickly to pity, and yet he continues, explains. “During the Blight. I didn’t...I mean, I didn’t have a chance...I was in Ferelden’s Circle at the time. Things were...very bad. I don’t know how much you know of the Kinloch but…”

“Leliana told me some,” she says, and now his blood runs cold as well. _She was there, she knows._ “Not much,” she rushes, looking down at his desk. “I...I mean...you weren’t able to leave, after?” she asks in a small voice. “You didn’t get permission to visit your family?”

“Permission?” he asks bitterly, looking out the narrow windows of his office outside. “From who? Lady Trevelyan, no one was _left_. Knight-Commander Greagoir was among the handful of templars who survived. Everyone who knew me well—my friends, the Knight-Captain of my unit—they were all dead. No one gave me permission to go anywhere.” She bites her lip. “Except Kirkwall, shortly after,” he adds bitterly. “I heard from Mia what had happened to them. There was nothing I could do. I was on a boat to the Free Marches before I even had a chance to grieve their deaths.”

“I’m so sorry,” she whispers, shaking her head.

“It’s in the past.”

“And…” she continues, _she wants more from me_ , “in Kirkwall? Did you keep in touch with your sister then?”

“Not until she managed to find out where I’d been reassigned,” he admits. She looks horrified. He hates it. “And even then, no. Not often. I poured myself into my work. I didn’t care to reflect on my past, on anything to do with Ferelden, really. And even if I had, Meredith didn’t leave much room for personal or family matters. In her Circle, the Order was your life. There were no outside distractions from the real work. I didn’t...no.”

They’re quite for a moment. _I’ve said too much_ , he thinks; he doesn’t enjoy divulging personal information to anyone, much less the Inquisitor. _I won’t let my past be a burden on the Inquisition_.

“You don’t have to worry about that now,” she says gently, finally, and he looks up at her, meets her eyes, clear and brown and unwavering. “I hope you keep in close contact with them. You can visit them, if you like, we have plenty of reliable soldiers who could cover for you and—”

“No,” he says firmly, crossing his arms. “Thank you, but I don’t—I keep them informed of my whereabouts and my safety. I don’t wish to maintain any more communication beyond that.”

“But…” She picks up the stack of letters, thick and carefully bound, _there have to be at least twenty, maybe thirty_ and she holds it out before him as though he doesn’t know. As though he’s blind. “But they’re _worried_ about you,” she insists.

“And I give them the information they need to ease their concerns.”

She shakes her head now, at a loss. “Don’t you think they want to see you?”

“I’m sure they may, but—”

“Commander,” she murmurs, returning the letters to his desk, she sounds _heartbroken_ , but he knows her. _No_. “You have family who love and care about you. They—”

“I am not the same person they remember!” he pushes, raising his voice, and she flinches. _No_. “I was a boy when I left them,” he continues, softer now. “I had such high hopes...and so had they, for me. They don’t know what I’ve done. Who I’ve become. Do I wish to see them? Yes. I think so. But I have no desire for them to see me.” He draws a hand to his face, presses his fingers to his forehead, pinches the bridge of his nose.

“I think they’d be proud of you,” she whispers.

He drops his hand.

She’s looking at him, _timidly_ , almost, leaning against his desk, letters still in hand as she searches his eyes for a response.

He only shakes his head. “I’m not proud of myself,” he says quietly. “Have you...have you no family you’re close to?”

“I was only close to my brother,” she answers, _fool,_ he thinks to himself, _thoughtless_.

“Yes, of course,” he stammers. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“No one else,” she continues. “My parents despise me. I was too spirited as a child for their likes. They always said I was bold like Bryony, but I had no desire to follow in her footsteps, and it turns out, boldness is only good if you bring it with you to the Order.”

“Your oldest sister?” he guesses, and she nods. “You dislike her.”

“That’s being kind,” she says tersely. “Make no mistake, Commander. I detest her.”

“It seems you detest all templars,” he observes, and she shakes her head.

“Rylen is likeable enough when he’s not waist-deep in a mess of trouble.” He can’t help but laugh at that, and she cracks a smile. “And anyway,” she says, more serious now. “I almost married a templar.” He opens his mouth to question her, but she’s too quick. “I know that’s hard to believe, but it’s true. We met at the Chantry services.”

“That’s somehow _more_ hard to believe.”

She laughs. “My parents made me go with them once a week. He was very kind to me. Charming. I should have known better from the start. I was skeptical as it was—I had only recently ended my first engagement because of...infidelity, on my fiance’s part.”

“I’m so—”

“He was awful. It doesn’t matter. But this had seemed different. I played harp at our Chantry, and he complimented my playing after every service. I tried to embellish the hymns. Go off book. See if I could throw him off me somehow. He only told me I played better than any of Ostwick’s Chantry sisters and possibly the Revered Mother herself. Got him in a lot of trouble from the Revered Mother when she caught wind.”

“I can imagine,” he chuckles. “So what happened?”

“What happened?” She smiles bitterly. “We got engaged. Bryony—she was Knight-Captain at the time—she helped him move up a bit in the ranks. He lost interest in me shortly after, and I lost value in my parents’ eyes for failing in not one but two back-to-back engagements.”

“So...he was only with you because he _wanted_ something from your family?” Cullen asks, confused, and she _laughs_ at him.

“Commander,” she says wryly. “Everybody wants something.” She stares at him as though to say, _obviously_ or _don’t you understand?_ or perhaps simply _fool_. “So the answer is no. No, I’m not close to anyone in my family.”

He furrows his brow. “Not even...what was her name?” he asks. “The one we saw at the Marquis’ gala?”

“Lyssa?” she asks incredulously. Mirthlessly. “Lyssa is exactly what I mean when I say everyone wants something. Look at her. She’s desperately searching for Bryony ever since she disappeared to Maker knows where. She’s so helpless that she won’t stop writing to me for help. Even when she knows I can’t stand her for what happened with Avery. For letting them take him while she stood quietly. Submissively. Like a _lady_ —exactly what my parents expected of her.”

“And...you never forgave her for it?” he asks cautiously. He’d seen Lyssa, if only briefly, at the gala. He knows what ill intent looks like in someone’s eyes...he hadn’t seen it in hers. “Not even now, when she...seems to want to communicate with you?”

“Forgive her?” she repeats, any laughter and warmth in her voice just moments before suddenly gone.

 

 _As though the concept is so outrageous,_ he thinks, but he knows her, should know better.

He takes a deep breath. “She isn’t the one who took your brother from you,” he offers diplomatically.

“It doesn’t make her blameless.”

 _We’ve been here before_.

Disagreements, snapping remarks, hot heads, cold words. He knows her. Knows her ways, her temper, her defenses. “No,” he agrees slowly, quietly, and she looks up at him, surprised. He quiets his voice now.

_I’m not biting._

“You’re right, Lady Trevelyan. She isn’t blameless. But we don’t all have the tenacious heart you have, to so boldly stand for what you believe without fear and without question. I admire you for it, but you are one of very few.”

She looks down, breaking her deep brown eyes from his, and in the candlelight, he thinks for a moment that he catches a light flush over her cheekbones. “What do you mean by that, Commander?” she asks quietly, and he breathes deeply again.

“I mean that I know what it’s like,” he clarifies. “To stand idly by and watch injustice sweep before you without intervening.” He clears his throat, closes his fingers into a fist behind his back. “I’ve seen her letters come in. She may write you as often as Mia writes me. Have you considered that she may wish to rekindle your relationship?”

She shakes her head, eyes bitter, cold. “Commander, I can’t simply _forget_ —”

“I know,” he interrupts her, taking a deep breath. _I know_. “But can you forgive?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wanted to mention that i commissioned my dear friend, ellie, to draw [the scene from chapter 15](https://bitchesofostwick.tumblr.com/post/183495662658/will-you-dance-commander-me-i) where cullen denies ellinor a dance. it came out so beautifully! i'm in love and wanted to share it with you all.
> 
> anyway, until next week!


	19. Walking in Circles

_Varric_

_It’s been a while. You don’t need me to tell you that we fucked up when we tried to kill Corypheus, but let me tell you just in case._

_WE FUCKED UP WHEN WE TRIED TO KILL CORYPHEUS._

_I’ve been looking for Stroud ever since picking up word of what happened in Haven. He’s been hard to find. The Wardens I’ve spoken to haven’t been much help. I think I’ve caught onto something, but if I have, I may need more help. I’ll send word when I know more._

_Hawke_

* * *

“Get rid of it.”

It’s not his business; he _knows_ better and yet he’s livid, furious on her behalf, fingers that trembled moments before now curling around the parchment of the Trevelyans’ letter as he passes it back across the war table to Josephine, who in turn allows Cassandra and Leliana to read it. _We were so worried and upset after hearing what had happened at the Conclave_ , her mother had written.

_Lies_.

Her parents are _lying_ to her. _They don’t care about her_. He presses his fingers to his temples, dismissing the dull ache in his skull, thinking back on their conversation before she’d left for the Emerald Graves nearly three weeks before. _My parents despise me_ she’d said, and _everybody wants something_ and it’s true that he knows little of the Game but he’s not _helpless_ , he knows lies and greed and sugar-coated flattery when he sees them and this, _this_ , is infuriating. Insulting to the Inquisition and to her.

“It is not for you to decide, Cullen,” Josephine says simply, and he furrows his brow.

“It’s what she’ll want when she gets back and sees this,” he insists, and he can’t even imagine making her read it in the first place. He’d woken up ill tempered that morning, or perhaps just ill, but this only furthered his frustration. _It’s sick._ “Honestly,” he grumbles, “who are they trying to fool? They weren’t _worried_ about her! They shipped her off to Ferelden with nothing but a trunk of dresses and her manners. No guard, no escort. And they haven’t tried once to contact her since she left Ostwick. They have no love for her and from what I understand, the feeling is mutual.”

Cassandra finishes reading the letter and folds it again, pinching the creases with care and unable— _unwilling_ , Cullen knows—to hide the distaste from her face.

“The... _motive_...in their words is not well disguised, that is true,” the ambassador agrees. “And you are right, Cullen. Ellinor will want nothing to do with this.”

He throws his hands in the air. “Then why are we still discussing it?” he snaps, and Cassandra gives him a warning look. _But it’s not a baseless question_ , he thinks; they should never have entertained the idea in the first place and yet—

“The Trevelyans are a family of wealth and connections,” Leliana explains, _as though it excuses them_ , he thinks sourly, but there’s no jest in her tone, no warmth in her eyes. “An alliance in the Free Marches with a family of such stature would bring immense benefits to the Inquisition.”

He almost can’t believe what he’s hearing.

“In exchange for what?” he growls. His head aches and the room is too bright for his liking but he carries on, endures, if only for her sake. “For the notoriety their daughter—who they all but disowned by sending her to the Conclave with no means of protection or return, mind you—the notoriety their daughter might bring them? For power and influence in southern Thedas? For forces? I for one will not send any of my soldiers to protect a family who couldn’t— _hasn’t_ —protected her. I won’t.”

“Cullen—” Cassandra starts but he glares at her.

“You of all people should see the foolishness in this.”

“We would hear their terms, yes,” Josephine clarifies. “That is, should Ellinor choose to—”

“She _won’t_.”

“And if she doesn’t, then so be it,” declares Leliana. “We cannot make her choice for her, but we can advise her on a decision that may best suit the Inquisition.”

He shakes his head slowly, eyes closed, head down, resists the urge to tug on the ends of his hair with both ends, to scream, to ask them _can’t you see what you’re saying?_ or tell them what he knew now, what she’d told him in confidence, _everyone has always wanted something from her, taken from her, and we cannot sink to that level._

_I will not._

“That...that best summarizes it, Leliana,” Josephine nods. “Yes.”

Josephine. Josephine, her _friend_.

When he opens his eyes, she’s looking to him for a response. _An agreement_ , he’s sure, but _no. I will not_. “Josephine,” he says, clearing his throat, his words are bitter and still he speaks. “When did you stop having compassion for her?”

When Josephine is speechless, Leliana’s blue eyes bore into him; she’s motionless, expressionless but for a single eyebrow raised at his suggestion. “Commander,” she says; they’re never so formal, not anymore, anyway, and yet she lets his title linger on her tongue, ring through the high ceilings of the room. “When did you start?”

* * *

It’s late when they finish their council—late enough that dinner has been cleared from the hall already, and without a scheduled lesson with Ellinor, he feels no need to stop in the kitchen for a meal. He thinks he may still have a bit of bread in his office; _that will suffice_ and anyway, there is work yet to do and night has fallen fast. _She will be home soon_ , he thinks, not bothering to suppress the smile the thought brings to his lips. It’s the first time, really, that he’s truly felt the weight of her absence. Not that he hasn’t noticed before. Ellinor’s missions had always brought a period of peace in which the keep was safe from Sera’s antics, always meant that Leliana might ask for a game of chess in place of Dorian—though _that_ often made him wonder if both the mage and the spymaster somehow found themselves obligated to provide him an hour’s entertainment, which is the last thing he’d want—and usually meant that he’d need to find a sparring partner near as good of a match as Cassandra, which is of course next to impossible, but she’s stayed behind this time, Ellinor deeming their last run-in with a dragon too rough on the Seeker and suggesting she take time to rest; Cassandra argued vehemently against it but Ellinor invited Blackwall along instead.

When he returns to his office, he finds that dinner has been delivered to his desk already—braised lamb and potatoes, a goblet of wine, and perhaps most surprisingly, a pot of hot water alongside a cup holding a wand of honey and a sachet of tea. _Elfroot_ , he thinks when he brings the small bag to his nose, his senses say _royal elfroot_ but there’s no way Marie would waste such a rare herb on tea. He breathes deeply a second time. _Elfroot and lavender and peppermint_. He pours the water instantly, letting the leaves steep as the honey dilutes in the hot water before bringing the cup to his lips, reveling in the soothing scents.

It’s good.

It helps.

_I’ll have to thank Marie_.

He sits down finally, heavily, at his desk, ready to complete the guard postings for the rest of the week and review recruit registries and finish writing crosstraining curriculums for the mages when his eyes catch on a small stack of field reports brought to him by bird and he smiles again, recalling each as they’d been delivered.

He’d never exchanged field correspondence with Ellinor before. He’d always been copied on her reports, of course, and she’d received missives and maps from his office by raven wherever her travels led her, but this time was different, starting with only a simple note—an afterthought, almost, just her tiny neat handwriting at the end of a daily report shortly after her party had left Skyhold. _Commander, do not neglect your Orlesian while I’m gone. We will resume être conjugation on my return,_ to which, in his next report, he’d issued a response scribbled hastily in the margins of an elevation survey. _My lady, je suis insulted you’d even make such an accusation. Of course I’m practicing._

He thumbs through the rest of her reports, most of which he’s read already, sipping his tea and taking his meal and finding his headache barely a memory now as he recalls the last note he’d sent to Ellinor the night before. _Lady Trevelyan, I regret to report that in the absence of your company and in spite of what I’d previously insisted, I’ve found less and less motivation to further the phrases I’ve learned already and pray you will forgive me on your return._ A response—sealed shut with her stamp and brought to his office sometime during the council meeting—sits unopened on his desk. With a flick of his knife, he cuts through the wax seal and pulls the paper open to find not a report nor a field update but a single note addressed only to him. _Commander, this is grave news indeed. If you should agree to meet for a lesson on the night of my return, I may find it in my heart to forgive your idleness. —E. Trevelyan._

He’s about ready to write a response to her when he’s interrupted by a polite cough, a throat clearing. “She should be back tomorrow,” Cassandra says, and his eyes snap up to see her. “There is no need to respond.”

“I hadn’t heard you come in,” he admits, reddening.

Shr shrugs. “I will not stay long. Josephine asked me to let you know that you forgot about your meeting with her this evening.”

_Of course_ , he chastises himself, _how could you have forgotten_ and _you’re running out of time_ but—

“She says it is no matter.” She lingers in the doorway and he waits, watching her, eyebrows raised. “When are you going to tell her?” she asks finally. “Ellinor, that is?”

He quickly returns his gaze to the parchment before him. “Tell her what?” he asks simply, though the flush creeping up his neck betrays any aloof tones he attempts to voice.

“When are you going to tell her how you feel about her?” she asks, wasting no time, _always to the point_ and he nearly chokes on his own breath.

“I don’t have—” he starts, shuffling the reports together and looking from Cassandra to his desk to Cassandra and then to the door behind her. “I can’t—I don’t...”

“You care for her,” Cassandra states simply. Always ready to voice what no one else will.

Cullen breathes deeply, first pressing his hands to his temples and then placing them dejectedly on the desk before him. “And if I do?” he asks quietly. It’s not a question. _You know it_ , he’s hardly admitted it to himself before now but he cannot deny it; he _knows_ , and so does Cassandra. “What could I do?” he asks, shaking his head. “Have her go from thinking I despise her to thinking I’m chasing her with some sort of foolish infatuation?” He sighs. “No. I don’t—I won’t.”

He’s said enough.

He waits for her to leave.

She doesn’t. “Is that all it is?” she asks instead. “A foolish infatuation?”

It’s only when he doesn’t answer her that she takes her leave, saying no more and closing the door behind her, leaving him alone.

* * *

_Hawke,_

_I was wondering when you might resurface. Haven’t heard from you since you were camped out in Val Royeaux for a bit. Stop shaking me off your trail—I told you, the Lady Seeker has no idea where you are and I don’t intend to let her find out unless you_ want _to be found._

_Still, that’s not really ideal, on a scale from not ideal to tolerable. Keep me in the loop. I mean it this time. And when you’re ready, you and Broody are welcome to come over to this mountain icehole of a castle. I’ll take the heat from the Seeker._

_—Varric_

* * *

She returns the following evening as Cassandra had told him, bruised and weary with her braid out of place and her eyes surrounded by dark circles but she’s _smiling_ ; she’s all right and she’s home and she’s not supposed to travel far again at least until Halamshiral and for that, Cullen issues a silent thanks to the Maker.

“Commander,” she greets him in yard; he’s never found himself among the crowd to welcome her home but today he is here, and he runs through every single thing he’d like to say to her, every possible word as she smiles expectantly back at him. _Are you all right?_ and _I’m glad you’re not going so far again anytime soon_ and _how was everything?_ are all good options.

_I missed you_ is the most accurate.

A short “Inquisitor” is all he manages instead.

She laughs demurely. He’s made a fool of himself but _if that’s the cost to hear her laughter_ than perhaps so be it.

“It’s good to see you,” she says, unwavering, nodding to him before her smile turns to a beam. “Don’t forget, we’re continuing our lessons tonight. I hope you’ll be ready.”

“Tonight?” he repeats. He knows she suggested so in her letter but she’s only just returned and she looks tired enough as it is. “Surely you need your rest,” he offers, but she shakes her head, grins.

“What’s a more entertaining way to unwind than sitting and watching a Fereldan attempt to speak Orlesian over tea and snacks?” she asks him, and he can’t argue with her any further. He thinks about mentioning her parents’ letter to her now but she’s smiling, she’s happy, and they’re to meet as a council in the morning anyway.

_Let her have this._

“Well,” she says, getting his attention again. “I’ve a bath to take, and some other things to take care of first. Meet me in the library in an hour and a half?” He glances skyward; it’s only just past sundown now and the stars have begun to show.

“Of course,” he says, offering a slight bow. “I’ll see you then.”

He means to return to his quarters just briefly, if only to refresh his memory on their lessons from _nearly three weeks ago now_ and to gather his materials but upon his arrival, a pair of scouts—Leliana’s, the two he’d borrowed over a month prior—wait at his desk, standing at ease and covered in dirt and dust from travel. _They can’t have arrived long after Ellinor’s party._

“Ser!” one says, and they both stand at attention, saluting. He raises a hand to them, _at ease_ , his heart pounding as he looks between the two. “News from Lieutenant Forrester.” The scout removes her satchel, extracting a booklet of notes and envelopes and reports thick and heavy and presenting it to him, and it’s with a slow certainty that he realizes he will not be able to meet Ellinor by the time she’d requested.

* * *

It’s well, well past dark when he reaches the library, climbing the spiral staircase from Solas’ rotunda with a steady beat in his heart and anxiousness in his veins.

“Dorian!” he says immediately upon reaching the top where Dorian sits, perched in an armchair and flipping through a thick volume. Stares from a few evening scholars grant him a sudden awareness of how loud his voice rings in the library, near-silent but for the occasional _caw_ of Leliana’s birds above. “Dorian,” he tries again, softer this time. The mage raises his eyebrows, half-curious and half-amused. “Do you know...” He clears his throat but his cheeks are already beginning to flush and it’s all he can do to stop himself from reaching back, rubbing his neck. “Do you know where Ellinor might have gone? After leaving? I, um, went by her quarters and she wasn’t there, I only wanted to—”

“Where she’s gone?” Dorian interrupts him, mustache turning up at the corners and _Maker_ , he’s smirking at him now. “Commander, she’s still here.”

He swallows. “Still here?” he repeats. “She wouldn’t have—I mean—she doesn’t wait for anyone.”

Dorian huffs a laugh; if he hadn’t been peering back down at the tome in his hands, Cullen might have sworn he’d rolled his eyes at him. “Well, she waited for you.” He can only look at him, slack-jawed and suddenly flooded with guilt. “For a long time, I might add.”

“I didn’t mean to—“

“She’s just over there,” he says, speaking quietly and closing the tome and before finally meeting his gaze, a slight frown upon his lips. He nods toward the little nook she frequented. “I dare say you let her down.”

Now his face must really be red. “I didn’t—” he sputters defensively. “It was only a lesson in Orlesian, it’s hardly something to be ‘let down’ by missing.”

Dorian _tuts_ at him. “You let her down,” he repeats. “I tell you this as her friend, because Maker knows she’d never tell you herself.” When it’s clear Cullen has no response, he sighs again. “And I ask you, as _your_ friend...”

“Yes?” Cullen mutters. _She’s still here,_ is all he can think. _She waited._

“Are all Fereldans as dim-witted as they look? Or is that unique to you?”

Now it’s Cullen’s turn to frown. “I’m not even going to bother answering that,” he mumbles, making to move past the mage, but he grabs him by the wrist when he tries.

“Cullen,” he says softly, soberly. “I’ll say this only once. I wouldn’t say it at all if she were not my friend and if I did not care for both of you deeply. But don’t, ever again, make her a promise you don’t intend to keep. She’s had enough of that in her life, don’t you think?”

Cullen can feel his cheeks grow hotter. “I never meant—”

“That’s all.” He releases his wrist and picks up his book once more. “No hard feelings, you might say. Now go to her.”

He does what he’s told.

And when he finds her, his face softens instantly. _She waited_ , he thinks, breathless as he looks upon her where she sits, curled up on the floor under an emerald and gold embroidered duvet—Dorian’s, no doubt—and asleep, leaning against a shelf of books beside her. A tray bearing two cups of now-cold tea and shortbread sits next to her, untouched along with several pages of Orlesian script and a candle burning low, flickering a soft warmth upon her.

He squeezes his eyes shut at the sound of his own armor when he sits down next to her, _please don’t wake up_ , because she’s lovely and restful and unworried like this and suddenly he feels as though he’d rather die than interrupt her small and ever-rarer moment of peace.

But she hears him. _Maker take this blasted armor._

“Hm?” she mumbles, opening her eyes slowly, and his heart flutters in his chest when he sees her sleepy smile, that initial rush of a glow in her cheeks before it turns to thoughtfulness, to concern.

_The Maker himself could damn me and I’d deserve it for ever making her wait._

“Cull—Commander, how long have—what time...?”

“After ten,” he says softly, regretfully. “I’m sorry I’m late.”

Her face falls.

His heart sinks.

"I got caught up in—” he rushes. “Well, it doesn’t matter, I could have— _should_ have sent someone to let you know I was running—”

“It’s fine.”

As soon as the disheartened look had flashed upon her face, it’s gone. Replaced instead by coolness, calm, the control he knew from her all too well. She pushes the duvet off her lap and folds it hastily.

_She’s closing me off._

_She’s closing herself off._

“I really am so—”

“It’s fine,” she repeats, picking the pages up off the floor, readying her texts and preparing to begin, giving him a small smile.

A forced smile.

He knows better.

* * *

_Varric_

_He’s not with me. I’m traveling alone._

_Hawke_


	20. Returning

“Absolutely not,” Ellinor says through gritted teeth, scanning the letter from her parents over and over again. For once she refrains from clenching her fists, from scowling or standing rigid where she is at the edge of the war table but her stomach turns, twists, her heart hurts not with pain but with anger, with fury.

 _Of course_ , she thinks, _of course they want something_ and she can’t _believe_ Josephine had even considered an alliance, Leliana too, and only Cassandra sits silent and stone-faced in the wake of Ellinor’s indignation.

“We will not give them information,” she says, possibly for the third time. “We will not give them soldiers. We will not accept anything from them. And we absolutely will not respond to this letter.”

“Perhaps I could at least draft a polite rejection?” offers Josephine softly, and Ellinor shakes her head sharply.

“No.”

Leliana sighs, bothered. “Ellinor, they _are_ your fam—”

“I have no family.”

“Be reasonable.”

“They have never once been reasonable with me. You see this, don’t you?” She stares pointedly at Leliana and Josephine. “That they didn’t write until it became common knowledge that the Inquisition is growing in power? Surely you haven’t just overlooked this.”

“We did not,” Leliana replies stoically.

“That’s what I thought,” Ellinor says. The blood in her veins—the air in the room, too—has turned cold since the four of them had gathered for council and Josephine had passed her the letter, seal broken, page torn and creased and indicating her eyes were far from the first to read its contents. “So what I understand.” she continues tersely, “is that you value my family’s money and connections more than you care about—”

“Ellinor, please—” Josephine interrupts, but she will not listen.

“Cassandra?” she prompts, looking to the Seeker for backup, but she only raises her hands, shakes her head defensively.

“I agree with you, Ellinor—I did when we read the letter before you had returned—but the decision is hardly mine to make.” And then, eyes softening: “Cullen was also on your side. Vehemently so.”

 _Cullen_.

The room quiets.

The commander has been gone for six days now, departed the morning after their most recent lesson and leaving behind little more than a note on his desk reading _urgent work, will return soon_. Though he’s delegated his workload accordingly—a trusted captain left to conduct drills for the week, reports and the like forwarded to either Cassandra for troop movements in Ferelden or Knight-Captain Rylen for those in Orlais—his absence is sudden, alarming, even if Ellinor seems to be the only one concerned. _He didn’t even say where he was going!_ she’d complained to Josephine, who in turn had sympathized and agreed his absence was irresponsible but then turned around and insisted _he is a grown man, Ellinor_ and _though I do find his sudden travels rather neglectful, he_ has _delegated his duties accordingly_. She’d hardly even begun voicing her concern to Leliana before the spymaster had simply informed her, _I disappear all the time, Ellinor_.

Neither Josephine nor Leliana have made any comment, and as though they’d somehow managed to make it through all of their agenda items for the meeting— _we haven’t_ —Josephine blows out the candle on her clipboard, sets her gaze downcast, gathers her papers from the table before them.

“Perhaps we can continue this discussion at a later time,” the ambassador offers with a timid smile as Leliana slips out of the room wordlessly. Ellinor shakes her head.

“We won’t, Josie.”

She nods. As though she knew, all along, that she would say no. “I am sorry,” she says softly.

“You know how I feel about them.”

“It was the diplomatic thing to—”

“I know, Josie,” she sighs. “I know.”

It’s only Ellinor and Cassandra left when Josephine gathers the remainder of her things and slips out with a quiet _goodnight_ , and Ellinor reflects not on the letter itself but on Cullen defending her—something she’d never expected, not even after talking to him about her family, her past. Mere months earlier and he would have berated her for putting her feelings before the benefit of the Inquisition and now in her place he stands to advocate for her. She wants to ask him why but of course, _of course_ he’s gone upon her hearing Cassandra recount it.

“Where is he?” she asks quietly.

Cassandra only raises an eyebrow at her. “Would I keep it from you if I knew?”

She ponders that for a moment; her initial instinct is _yes, wouldn’t you?_ but loyal though Cassandra may be, she is first and foremost honorable. Honest. “No,” she admits, and Cassandra responds at first only with silent acknowledgment, and then—

“You are angry with him for leaving unannounced.”

“Angry?” she repeats, shaking her head. “Concerned, more.” _Worried_.

“It often manifests as one and the same with you.”

She knows Cassandra is right. She’d snapped at the runner who’d first delivered the news of Cullen’s departure to her days before, lashed out at his lieutenants for explanation (they had none), fervently sent a raven immediately to Rylen for information (he knew nothing), then stewed in her quarters before storming out to the stables and it was only then that Leliana had caught her and told her _you’ll never catch up to him even if you did know where he was, Ellinor_.

“It’s not unfounded. He’s not in a place to travel alone without disclosing his whereabouts,” she says simply, but her voice softens. “He was unwell before he left.”

He’d been ill prior to his sudden departure, before she’d traveled to the Emerald Graves; she’d noticed it in the paleness of his face, his irritability, the way he reacted to noise and sunlight, the way she’d seen his fingers shake just from turning the pages of Orlesian text she’d given him. And then—the night before he left—he’d been late to their lesson, busy and distracted and rushed and something was off about him but she hadn’t asked and now she cursed herself for it, cursed her stubbornness and her pride.

Cassandra takes a deep breath. “He told me that you know now. About the lyrium.”

She nods. “I wished he’d have told me sooner,” she admits, and Cassandra gestures around her.

“He did not wish to concern you with his own matters. Now you know, and here you are, concerned and angry.”

“I’m not angry,” she snaps, and Cassandra raises her eyebrows.

“Cullen has endured many things during our Inquisition, Ellinor,” she says simply. “And many more before he knew you. He has seldom been afforded the luxury of another caring for his well being, I do believe he will be all right until his return, much as you may believe otherwise. Have more faith in him.”

“I _have_ faith in him!” Ellinor argues.

“Is that why you arranged for his meals to be brought to his tower while you were in the Emerald Graves?”

“That’s not—” she sputters. “I didn’t. I only asked Marie to send them up if he didn’t show for dinner. And—and how did you know that, anyway?”

“He thanked Josephine at a council meeting for sending tea with his dinner. She was quite confused. Leliana inquired after that, and Marie gave you away.” She crosses her arms. “There was no need to keep it a secret, Ellinor.”

“He wouldn’t have accepted it. Especially the tea.” _Royal elfroot, lavender, peppermint_ ; he’s not unintelligent and Ellinor knew he might suspect what the tea was _for_ and _it’s better he doesn’t know_ she’d decided then. She felt the same way now.

“He had no problem accepting it thinking it was from Josephine.”

“That’s because it’s Josephine,” Ellinor dismisses, and Cassandra sighs. “ _What?_ ”

The Seeker only shakes her head. “You are only trying to help him, are you not?”

“Of course,” Ellinor replies, a flush creeping up her cheekbones. “But you said yourself. He doesn’t want me to be concerned with his well being.”

“That’s not what—” Cassandra sputters, clenching her fists. “You do not—neither of you—” She groans. “Never mind.” With a final _huff_ and a flurry of chainmail and muttered words, she disappears out into the hall, leaving Ellinor alone with her letter written _with love_. She tears it in half only once before throwing it to the dwindling coals of the brazier and retiring to her quarters for the night.

* * *

_Varric_

_No luck with Stroud. I should’ve taken you up on that offer to come visit your big Inquisitorial castle place. Camping all the time in this weather’s gonna make me freeze my tits off, and then Isabela really will be hotter than me._

_Don’t tell her I said that._

_Continuing eastward. I’ll write when I can._

_Hawke_

* * *

“Inquisitor!”

The seventh day of Cullen’s absence has most of Skyhold, to Ellinor’s understanding, avoiding her at all costs. The soldiers in the training yard freeze into a salute as she passes by and even when she commands them to stand at ease the watch, rigid and tense. The cooks in Marie’s kitchen mumble a brief _Your Worship_ upon her entry and scramble to pour her coffee in the morning and even when she offers a smile and thanks them in turn, they don’t meet her gaze and only hurry along to their other tasks. Even the inner circle seems tense. Bull declines her proposition of drinks at the Herald’s Rest— _shouldn’t drink when you’re upset, Boss_ —and the rest of the Chargers follow suit. Leliana is as elusive as ever, Josephine busies herself with letters and orders, Cassandra takes to her training dummy and responds with a harsh _no_ when Ellinor asks her to spar, leaving no room for argument or even conversation. Even Sera brushes her off with a short _been a little bitchy lately, yeah?_ before scowling and retreating to her rooftop without inviting Ellinor along.

So when a familiar Inquisition captain stops her in the courtyard on her way back to her quarters after dinner, it comes both as a surprise and a concern.

“Captain,” she nods, raising a hand to set the officer’s salute at ease.

“You asked to be informed of Commander Cullen’s return.”

“He’s _back_?”

The captain nods, and Ellinor clenches her fists. “Yes, Your Worship. Rode in with a small party a half hour ago. Looked to be a unit of our own and a couple mages, although I’m not quite sure—”

She shakes her head quickly. “No, that’s enough. Thank you, Captain.”

She salutes again before returning down the battlements, and Ellinor’s stomach turns even as she stands still, nails digging into her palms of their own accord, breathing deeply, shaking, _He’s been gone nearly a week,_ she thinks, _no word_ and _no explanation_ and _Maker_ she can’t leave Skyhold for an afternoon without sending a bird back to report but apparently he can vanish for days at a time with little more than a stoic silence from Cassandra and a disapproving _tut_ from Josephine and now he returns with soldiers and mages and _himself_. Any relief she feels at his safe return is masked, overpowered by her frustration and concern as she takes the stairs to the battlements two at a time, half storming, half _running_ until she reaches his office.

“Commander,” she lashes, throwing the door open and tearing her gloves off. She counts three other figures before her gaze finds him in the dim light of his office—two in robes and another in Inquisition officer’s gear, all dirty, cloth and boots and leathers thick with mud from the journey and even Cullen’s armor doesn’t shine as usual, the red of his coat turned brown from the weather. “I trust you have a good reason for your week-long _excursion_.”

“Lady Tr—”

“‘Urgent work, will return soon’?” she quotes, crossing her arms, and the two in mages’ robes turn to face her but she doesn’t acknowledge them. _Not now_ , not when Cullen is home and she needs answers. “No details of your destination or a solid timeline for your return?”

“I—”

“Don’t you know how worried I—how worried the Inquisition has been? Did you at any point consider the impact your absence would—”

“Lady Trevelyan,” he interrupts, quite loudly, stacking papers and missives together at his desk, and she glares at him. “I’ve plenty of reports detailing my travels and the work preceding them here, for when you have the time, but now—”

“I have time now.”

Cullen says nothing as one of the mages approaches her, steps forward just once, cautiously. He’s tall and thin, long haired, bearded, and even in the candlelight it’s difficult to see him clearly. She blinks once.

“Ell?” he asks her, and her heart stops.

She can’t move.

She can’t speak.

She can’t breathe.

 _No_ is her first thought, her first instinct, _he’s too tall_ and _he’s too thin_ and _he has a beard_ and he wears robes she doesn’t recognize in fabrics she’s never seen but she claps her hand over her mouth anyway, her heart freezing, pounding, aching all at once.

 _But only he calls me Ell_.

And the eyes, _his eyes are the same_ , dark and brown like hers and his face is sun-worn, tanner than she remembers but the way his eyes glisten and his lips turn up at the sight of her are all so _him_ , and she feels at once that she’s drowning and burning and so quickly now she can’t see the differences she’d initially noticed, and now she can hardly see at all anyway, her cheeks are wet and her vision blurry and her breaths coming in gulps, sobs, and she can hardly feel her feet carry her but he catches her, _Avery_ catches her, and he smells like earth and sweat and horse and—

“Avery,” she chokes, finally taking her hands from her mouth so she can wrap them in fists around the fabric at his back and she can’t let go, _won’t_ let go. “I looked—I wanted—I _tried_ —” she gasps but she can’t speak, can’t formulate words and it’s enough to feel his nod against her shoulder and his breath in her hair.

“Ell,” he says again, and his voice is deeper than she’s known but it’s him, _it’s Avery_. “Ellinor.”

He holds her while she cries. She can’t remember the last time she’s cried so much and if she tries, she might consider the night she watched him leave their estate fourteen years ago and she’d thought she’d spent all her tears then. She has plenty now. He rubs her back, cradles the back of her head with fingers rougher than she remembered, hardened from years of wielding a staff she’d never seen him hold before, and he’s crying too, she can feel the dampness in her hair where his cheek rests. When she opens her eyes, Cullen is there behind them still. Watching. Waiting. He lowers his gaze immediately upon meeting hers, patting the thick stack of reports on his desk before clearing his throat, nodding. “We’ll take our leave,” he says quietly. “Lieutenant.”

“Inquisitor,” replies the Inquisition officer cordially, following Cullen out the door to the battlements, and when they’re gone, it’s all she can do to hold Avery harder, tighter, as though if she lets go now she might lose him again and she can’t, _I can’t lose you again._ She’s vaguely aware of the second mage still with them but she can’t bring herself to care. _He’s here_ , she thinks, _he’s home_ because he hasn’t had a home, a real home, since they were twelve and if Skyhold is her home, _then it’s his home, too_.

“How did you,” she manages, and he releases his hold around her; she’s not ready to let go but she won’t ever be ready and so she does, reluctantly, _we have time_ she tells herself even when she doesn’t quite believe it. She swallows. “How did you—where—I tried to reach you, I—”

“I got your message,” he says reassuringly; his voice is deeper but it carries that same softness, that same warmth. “We tried to find you, we traveled to Haven but it was…”

“Gone,” she finishes, nodding, wiping her eyes with the back of the hand. Her voice is broken, hoarse but she can’t possibly bring herself to care. “Yes, I thought...I thought that was the last chance I had. For you. I wanted to keep looking, I’ve _always_ looked, I came here to Ferelden looking for you and I—and then I—”

“We’d heard word of the Inquisition and its Herald of Andraste,” he tells her, adding a soft smile when she cringes at the title. “If I’d known it was you sooner I’d have...but we _didn’t_. We didn’t know.”

She shakes her head. “With that kind of title, it’s rare for someone to use my family name anymore,” she admits.

“Cullen doesn’t seem to have a problem with it,” Avery laughs.

 _Cullen_.

“Yes,” she presses, “how did you come to find the commander?”

“Ell,” he chuckles, smiling even as he wipes the tears from his eyes. “We didn’t find Cullen. Cullen found _us_.” Her heart nearly stops. “After Redcliffe, we moved south—anything to get away from the Venatori madness. We wanted no part in it. And we came north again after getting your message, but with Haven lost, we traveled along the Ferelden side of the mountains for...weeks. Months, I guess. We wandered for so long, just traveling, and camping, and then we were even thinking about crossing to the Orlesian side, but that’s when the Inquisition scouts came along. And they said, ‘Avery Trevelyan’? So of course I answered ‘yes,’ and they told me ‘we come as friends, and we’ve been asked to take you to the Inquisitor.’ So of course we went along. It wasn’t until Cullen met up with us that we found out...well, that _you_ were the Inquisitor.”

 _Urgent work_ , he’d written. Nothing more. She reaches behind Avery to Cullen’s desk, picking up the thick bundle of reports he’d left her. The top letter is dated back to Wintersend, and she drops the stack immediately, breathing deeply, taking a slow hand to the bridge of her nose and closing her eyes.

_That long. He’s been searching that long._

“Ell?” Avery asks softly, and she drops her hand, opens her eyes, nods. “I haven’t...I mean, I should introduce you.” He reaches out to the mage beside him—the mage who for the entirety of Ellinor appearance had waited quietly, politely and now smiles warmly on Avery’s prompting. “Ell, this is Bridget, my...a friend. Bridget, my sister—my _twin_ sister. Ellinor.”

“Bridget,” Ellinor says, grasping her hand in her own. She’s blonde, freckled, pale— _Ferelden_ , she realizes; Avery must have met her sometime after leaving the Free Marches. _Friend_ , though she doesn’t quite believe him.

“I’ve heard so much about you,” Bridget says kindly, adding a soft smile.

“I’m very glad to have you here,” she stammers. “With Avery.” She takes a deep breath, collecting herself. “You must have had a long journey. I’ll find someplace for you to stay—I can ask one of the—”

“Cullen has already made arrangements for us,” Avery clarifies, and she nods, thoughts swimming. Overwhelmed.

“Of course. I should—I need to speak with him, actually.”

Avery nods.

“I won’t be long,” she assures him, wants to beg him _don’t go anywhere_ and _not yet_ but she breathes deeply, thinks rationally. “If you two would like to find your rooms, Avery, I can find you after. We have—”

“—a lot to discuss, yes,” he finishes, smiling.

She bids Bridget goodnight, promising more conversation in the morning, gives Avery a last look before instructing one of Cullen’s troops to escort them to their rooms. When she steps out of his office at last, he’s there, leaning against the wall of the ramparts quietly, ever on guard, ever patient.

“Commander,” she starts, stops, shakes her head, _no_ , starts again. “Cullen.”

His chin jerks up now, almost jumping at his own name, and even in the moonlight his amber eyes are attentive, searching, and she reaches a single single hand across the cool stone across to him, over his own, and even through the leather she feels him first flinch, then relax, muscles softening as does his gaze upon her.

_How is ‘thank you’ enough?_

“I...I don’t,” she chokes, eyes welling with tears even after all those she’d spilled earlier in the night. “I can’t—”

“You don’t have to say anything. Please don’t.”

She shakes her head, turning to him fully now, wiping her eyes before taking his second hand in hers, grasping them both and tilting her chin up to him. “Yes,” she whispers, “I do. I...Cullen, thank you. And...I...why?”

He shakes his head, wide eyed, shrugging. “It was just...the right thing to do,” he sputters. “I mean...what I should say is that…” He takes a deep breath. “Ellinor,” he whispers, and her heart aches. “You’ve given so much to the Inquisition. Already. And I only thought...maybe it was time someone gave you something back.”


	21. Changes

“Settled in?” she asks softly when she meets Avery in the courtyard, and he nods, smiles, even as his eyes are weary, and his face looks tired and he stretches his arms behind him, having changed into borrowed robes, clean and fresh and warm. The black cat has joined them, fresh from a nap in the hay in the stables, and she’s glad for the extra company—a familiar face against one who seemed against all odds so known and so unfamiliar as well.

“Bridget turned in early,” he says. “She wanted me to—well, maybe she’ll want to tell you herself, really, but she said you’re everything I’d described and more.”

 _And what did you describe?_ a part of her wants to ask, but it’s a question for another time; her heart is loud and her head still spins and she’s far more concerned with questions for him than for herself tonight. She lies in the cool grass, spreading her arms and her legs and looking up at the moon above them. Only the night guards pass them by here and there, and aside from a quiet lull from the tavern across the yard, it’s quiet. Peaceful.

“Where did you go?” she whispers, _to the point_ —Cassandra would be proud—her voice breaking. “After Ostwick? I wrote to you, I came to find you, and Bryony—”

“You came to the Circle Tower?” he asks, wide eyed. Pale.

“Four times.”

“I didn’t know,” he breathes, and she laughs wryly.

“Who would have told you? The last time, Bryony told me you’d been transferred. I expected it was because all of Ostwick was sick of me making a scene trying to find you. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was Bryony’s idea. Or even Mother and Father’s.”

He frowns, shrugs halfheartedly. “I went to Tantervale for a few years. I liked it there. I...anything seemed better than Bryony. Ell, it was like she didn’t know me. She wouldn’t even talk to me. We—I know she’d changed after leaving to join the Order, but...the way she treated me, I…” He swallows. “It doesn’t—”

“It matters,” Ellinor interrupts him, _I’m not surprised_ but her voice is harsher than she means, and she lowers her eyes, stroking the cat’s black fur. He only shakes his head.

“Anyway, I never saw her again after I was transferred. And then after Tantervale, I was moved again. No reason. Not that I knew of.”

“Still too close to home for Mother and Father, maybe,” she mutters darkly, but he ignores it.

“It was Cumberland for the rest—that’s where I met Bridget, too, she’d been moved there after the Ferelden Circle broke. And it was fine, for a while. Very official there, with the college and everything. We stayed until...well, until Kirkwall happened.” He lets out a long exhale, stretches his arms. “There wasn’t a lot of moving around—not like at the other Circles, I imagine—but a few of us talked about it for a while and decided to make a run for it. Ferelden seemed the safest bet. Maybe because there’s no Circle there anymore. I don’t know. It’s what we decided. It’s been a lot of running, a lot of secrecy, a lot of losing people. You can’t get close to anyone because you don’t know if they’re going to get captured by templars, or worse.” He mimes a knife crossing his throat with his fingers. “You have to trust yourself more than anyone else—”

“And Bridget?”

He smiles then, soft, looks down into his lap.

 _They’re not friends_.

“I trust Bridget a lot,” he says. “I didn’t when I first met her, I guess. I don’t know. I kept to myself a lot in Ostwick and Tantervale, but she...she’s just…” He sighs. “I don’t know. It was like everything in me went against what I had wanted previously, you know?”

“I don’t,” she says slowly.

 _He won’t say they’re more than friends,_ she realizes. _I know and he knows that I know._

“It wasn’t the right time for us to find each other,” he explains. “And yet...that’s what _made_ it right, you know?”

She shakes her head, and he smiles sheepishly.

He sobers after a moment.

“ _You_ haven’t heard from Bryony, have you?”

“Not personally. Not since Reilly’s wedding…” She counts the time in her head. “Six years ago. Mother and Father had been keeping in touch with her, though. And Lyssa, of course.”

Where he’d smiled moments before, now his face has turned pale, sullen. “And you speak to them all often?”

She’d have laughed if it weren’t for the severity of the situation and the sheer disbelief an hour later still coursing through her veins. “Avery,” she says slowly, shaking her head. “I left Ostwick months ago looking for you and Mother and Father didn’t write me until last week.”

“They...but...maybe they just—”

“Lyssa knows where I am. She’s told them, I have no doubt. They knew.” She sighs. “No, they waited until they knew the Inquisition was a force to be reckoned with. Until I had something to offer them, until they had something to gain. And _then_ they wrote me.”

He’s speechless for a moment. _He knows_ ; fourteen years in the Circle and their parents had never written him either. _He knows_.

“So you still see Lyssa, then?” he asks, processing the information.

“Unfortunately.”

“Ell, Lyssa was never that bad.”

“Lyssa watched you go,” she says adamantly, through gritted teeth. “And she did nothing.”

“She wouldn’t have had it in her.”

“She didn’t even—”

“She’s not you, Ell,” Avery sighs. “And don’t get me wrong, I felt more or less the same for a time. But I’ve had a _long_ time to think about it, and I know. She’s not like Bryony, and she’s not like Reilly, but damn, Ell, she’s not like you either.”

 _You’re apologizing for her_ , she wants to say, _and she_ hurt _you_ , but she’s only just found him and there’s no room in her heart for argument. _Not now._ “She’s lives in Val Royeaux,” she says simply, turning the subject. “I see her sometimes when I’m there, or elsewhere in Orlais. And she writes constantly. Or at least, she was writing constantly. Less so, now. I don’t know. I don’t read her letters.”

He frowns.

“She’s looking for Bryony,” she adds finally. “She’s ‘missing.’”

“Missing?”

“According to Lyssa,” she nods, and he rubs his thumb and forefinger along his stubbled jaw.

“Interesting.”

Ellinor shrugs. “I hope they never find her.”

He says nothing to that.

“Were you speaking with Cullen, just before?” he asks her finally, and she nods, crossing her arms behind her head in the grass, both glad for the break in subject and flustered from the thought.

“I couldn’t...I still can’t believe he found you.” she admits. “That he spent so much time and resources to look for you and that he thought it was worth his time at all. He never…” She trails off, tilting her head to look at him.

“Are you not friends?”

 _Friends_. She tastes the word in her mouth. She’d never considered him such. _Enemies, no_ , not anymore, anyway, and yet when she thinks of her friends she thinks of Josephine and drinking tea with her in her office by the fire, of Dorian and the way she can fall into a chair in his library for hours of gossip and stories at a time, of Sera and cookies on her roof and plotting against visiting Orlesian nobles. _Is Cullen any different?_ she wonders, scratching her fingers between the cat’s ears. She reflects on their lessons, their dinners, their late-night discussions of family and pasts.

“We are,” she decides, slow, contemplating, and Avery raises an eyebrow.

“He seems to think very highly of you.”

She’s glad for the moonlight; his words both surprise her and flatter her and her cheeks grow warm with the sentiment.

“He hasn’t always.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Avery admits. “You have little to catch up on, compared to me. Circle tales can only take up so much conversation, but you—you have twelve whole years of the outside life to tell me about.”

“And where would you like me to begin?” she asks dryly. “My failed attempts at finding you? My failed engagements? How I left for Ferelden to come looking for you and Mother and Father didn’t even see my ship depart? How—no.” Her heart sinks; _no_. “I’m sorry, Avery. I’ll tell you. All of it, in time.”

“So Cullen’s told me more about you than you will, then,” he says simply.

“What did he say?”

He tilts his head to the side. “That you’re brave—no, that wasn’t the word. That you’re _fearless_. That you did not wish for the role you were given but that you have been an incredible leader to the Inquisition. That you’ve proven people wrong many, many times. And that...how did he say it?”

 _It doesn’t matter_ , she thinks; her heart already aches at the thought of Cullen telling such stories of her.

“Oh yes. He said that—and I find that this isn’t surprising, somehow—that he has never met someone so elegant and so fierce at the same time.” Avery shrugs. “He seemed in awe. He never knew you when I did—I’m not surprised at all.”

* * *

_Our dear Lyssa,_

_We have received no word from your sister since writing. It is both disrespectful and irresponsible for Ellinor to take such delay in her response. Confronting her further may be a drastic measure, though. It’s best your father and I wait patiently. In the meantime, I implore you to maintain contact with her. To spurn the Trevelyan family as she may wish to do would be an embarrassment and a scandal, and you, Lyssa, are the only of us with the geographical means to reconcile her relation to our family. This task rests with you, at least for now._

_Please write to confirm your understanding of our concerns._

_With love,_

_your Mother_

_Signed Lady Rosalind Trevelyan of Ostwick._

* * *

“You are to be fitted for your gown tomorrow, Ellinor,” Josephine reminds her, tying up any loose ends from an already two-hour-long war council. Since beginning their meeting, the sun has set, a fog has set over the glass window panes, and Cassandra has crossed and uncrossed her arms more times than Ellinor could count—a sure sign of an overstretched agenda. Avery’s arrival had neither, to Ellinor’s dismay—though she tried to hide it—delayed nor cancelled their meeting. _We attend the Empress’ ball in less than three weeks!_ Josephine reminds them constantly, and so for the entirety of the two hours, she finds herself repeating an endless _yes, Josie_ or _no, Josie_ upon every review of their strategies and plans, agreeing to remind Sera of proper ball etiquette—though she knows the elf couldn’t possibly care less—and even lying to cover Cullen’s tracks when Josephine asks how his Orlesian is coming along. The truth is _abysmal_ ; her answer is _not bad_.

“Yes, Josie,” she repeats once more. “I haven’t forgotten.”

The ambassador nods, at last blowing out the candle on her clipboard, and Ellinor swears she can feel a collective sigh cross the room when the symbolic meeting adjournment is complete. Only Cassandra actually sighs, pointedly exiting the war room first, and Ellinor glances out the window again, trying to gauge a time estimate.

“Commander!” she calls, stopping Cullen as he makes to follow the others out of the room. “Cullen.”

“Lady—Ellinor,” he replies, correcting himself, straightening his jacket. He places his hands cordially on the pommel of his sword as he so often does when he’s deep in thought.

 _It’s proper_ , she thinks. _Professional. He worries I speak as a colleague and not a friend_.

“Cullen. There’ll be a gathering in the tavern after dinner. For Avery, and—and Bridget, too. He’s yet to meet many of my friends, and—well, he’s met you.” Her mouth feels dry, her tongue twisted. Rarely does she find herself stumbling for words. “I only mean—we’ll be there. Some of us. And we... _I_...would love if you could come. If you like.”

He reddens, shifting from foot to foot. “That’s really...I mean, I’m not sure if I...I don’t often go to the tavern.”

“But tonight?” she prompts, a subtle plea. “For me.”

“Yes, I...well, perhaps.” His amber eyes linger on hers before he nods once more to her and disappears into the hall.

_Perhaps._

Dinner is quick, rushed, thanks to the length of their meeting, and it’s not long before they make their way to the tavern. The usual clientele of the Herald’s Rest have retreated to the upper floors when Ellinor arrives, Avery and Bridget in tow. Cabot nods solemnly when she raises an eyebrow at him; he’d never admit it, but she has no doubt he’s to thank for clearing the tavern-goers out of the main hall to make way for her most treasured friends. Several of the main floor’s tables are pushed together in the center by the fireplace to make one large seating arrangement, and though there have to be nearly twenty chairs surrounding it, Sera—the only of Ellinor’s friends to arrive before them, other than Bull and the Chargers, who seem perpetually present wherever ale is involved—perches along the surface of the table itself, sipping back a mug of ale. _You’re mirror Ellie, then?_ she observes, looking Avery up and down while Ellinor waves Cabot over for a round of drinks; Bridget laughs and Ellinor has to say _don’t encourage her_ , and before long, Josephine arrives bearing her own bottle of Antivan brandy. _You’ll rob me of my business_ , Cabot complains, but even he isn’t immune to the ambassador’s charms. A quick smile and a pleading _it is a very special occasion, Cabot_ are all it takes to earn her a grumbled _very well_ from the barkeep, and by the time she’s uncorked the bottle and passed it between them, the door opens again and in come Cassandra and Leliana, offering polite smiles each to Avery and Bridget and sitting side by side at the fireplace.

With enough guests for Ellinor to deem it a proper party, Maryden begins to play her lute, choosing songs from Ferelden and the Free Marches alike in honor of their guests. Dorian and Vivienne come some time later— _you’re late_ , Sera sneers, to which Vivienne replies _we’re not_ and Dorian replies _fashionably late, my friend_ —and both take up seats right alongside Avery and Bridget, with Dorian calling back to Cabot for goblets for the vintage he’s brought. Cabot says again _you’re robbing me of my business_ and Dorian says _I don’t care_ , and although begrudgingly so, the barkeep supplies them with an array of goblets, and Dorian takes the honors of uncorking the bottle— _let it breathe, dear_ , he prompts Ellinor when she reaches for it—and pouring it when he deems the waiting period satisfactory. It’s not until the mage passes her a glass, mouths the words _relax, darling_ , that she realizes she’s been on edge.

Sitting beside Avery, seeing him laugh at Bull’s jokes and discuss the Circles with Vivienne and detail the Nevarran landscape to Cassandra and every so often smile at Bridget and take her hand in his own feels to her at once like something that fit, something that belonged, something that felt so right, and a dream.

Something impossible.

But he’s here, _Avery’s here_ and she’ll remind herself of the fact as many times as she needs to, _every day_ if she has to. _He’s home_.

So she sips her wine. Indulges Sera in tales of the pranks they’d pulled on their sisters when they were children, entertains the Chargers with stories of their long-ago horse races through the streets of Ostwick and the mayhem that had ensued. She lets Vivienne discuss the academics of magic, though she hardly finds the topic exciting enough for a night at a tavern, and when Dorian begins to tell stories of the mages in Tevinter, she listens in both awe and distaste alongside their friends.

It’s late when she decides the gathering is surely full for the evening. Only a few are absent, anyway—Solas had met Avery and Bridget at dinner, wished them well, promised them tavern gatherings simply weren’t for him. Cole hasn’t made an appearance, though Ellinor suspects he’s around anyway. She’s just about relaxed in her chair when a rush of cool air at her back indicates a final guest.

She turns to find Cullen, red-faced from the cold and dressed, for once, in only a cotton shirt and trousers beneath his normal fur-trimmed red coat. The restless buzz of the tavern dies down immediately.

“Well, now it’s a party,” Sera says dully.

Only Ellinor stands to greet him, leaving her seat to meet him at the door, take his hands in hers. “You came,” she says, flushing from the wine but smiling of her own volition, happy, _glad_ , and he swallows, nods, and his hands are cold in her own but the way he smiles at her nearly makes her not notice, and it’s not until someone coughs loudly that she realizes they’ve been standing in the doorway, and she leads him by the hand to the table, to the seat beside her where the party continues.

“Yes, well, truthfully,” he murmurs when the group resumes its chatter, and Ellinor gives him a soft smile, “it’s not often I enjoy such social occasions.”

“I’m glad you decided to show,” she says. “Avery’s here because of you, after all.”

His face reddens immediately, pausing as Sera and Krem attempt to teach Avery and Bridget one of their favorite drinking songs. “No,” he continues finally, “no, I didn’t—that is, it’s not—it’s Lieutenant Forrester who led the search, really. And I borrowed two of Leliana’s scouts for—”

She shakes her head, places her hand atop his, silencing him. “And who tasked the lieutenant with the search in the first place?” she asks him, to no answer. “Who mapped the routes and maintained near-constant correspondence with the unit? I’ve spoken to Lieutenant Forrester and she told me—”

“Ellinor…”

“And Leliana informed me that you wouldn’t have taken ‘no’ for an answer in borrowing her scouts. Cullen you... _you_ did this. Surely you must know how much this means to me. It’s all I’ve wanted since I was twelve. It’s all that I came to Ferelden for, it’s all that I’ve devoted so much of my life for, and you did it. For me. I can’t...I can’t begin to think of a way to thank—”

“Please,” he says softly, interrupting her. “I don’t want your thanks, Ellinor.”

“But you have it,” she insists. “I...Cullen, you aren’t… you’re not the person I once thought you were. Let me say that much, at least.”

He bites his lip. Thinks. Nods, finally.

“All right,” he whispers.


	22. Bitter, with Honey

In the days leading up to their departure for Halamshiral, Cullen sees less and less of Ellinor and more—surprisingly so—of her brother. She’d charged Dorian with entertaining Avery and Bridget while her Inquisition duties kept her away from them, though Cullen knew she’d wanted little else but to stay by their sides at every moment. No sooner had she given her instructions than the Tevinter delegated the task to Cullen instead. _I’m hardly in a position where I have to take orders from_ you _, you know_ , he’d muttered, _and besides, I’m far too busy_ , but Dorian would have none of it— _but my dear Commander, you are already well acquainted,_ he’d insisted, citing research into Corypheus in ancient Tevinter as his own reasons for having no time to do it himself. Bickering had gotten Cullen nowhere; Dorian is inarguably more eloquent than he is and even if he weren’t, Cullen just doesn’t have the patience—or, lately, the energy—for the back and forth with him.

On the evening before they’re to leave, Cullen has taken the liberty of inviting Avery and Bridget to his weekly meeting with the representatives from the mage alliance. _We know some already_ , Avery had mentioned before the meeting, and how could he have forgotten? They’d been apostates in Redcliffe too, before the Venatori, and likely fought alongside any mages who’d either died there or joined up with the Inquisition. The mages take to Avery and Bridget in part with curiosity, in part with wariness, and when the meeting is adjourned and the representatives part ways, Avery frowns. _They question us,_ he says, _they doubt us_ and when Cullen asks why, Bridget can only shake her head. _We weren’t there,_ she replies, and Avery adds, _we left when the others stayed_.

 _You had reason to leave,_ Cullen thinks. But then, for all his time in the Circle, he realizes he knows little of mages and less of their solidarity. They’re left outside with the evening ahead of them, and when a group of young mages approach Bridget and ask her to instruct them in some primal magic they’d yet to learn before their Circle broke, she agrees. It leaves Cullen on edge—more so than he is already that day; the withdrawals are threatening and he’s feeling unwell but he’s promised Ellinor to accompany the two for the day, and it’s not a promise he intends to break. He nods solemnly, motions for Bridge to go ahead, turns to Avery, hoping to keep his ill feelings at bay long enough to last the afternoon.

“Do you play chess?” he asks suddenly, and Avery’s face brightens.

“I haven’t in a long time, so I may have to ask you to go easy on me.”

They set the board in the courtyard where he so often plays against Dorian, more rarely against Leliana, and more rarely still against Ellinor—a recent development, a way to reconnect after her missions into Orlais or Ferelden before they break into an Orlesian lesson, or sometimes, a way to unwind from their lessons.

She’s awful at it.

He hasn’t found a single person he’d rather play with than her.

While they place their pieces along the board, Avery watches the mages train along with Bridget. “She likes it here,” he says. “I don’t think she’ll want to leave.”

 _You’re leaving?_ Cullen wants to ask, but Avery doesn’t elaborate—and doesn’t look like he wishes to. He’s like Ellinor, in that sense—his words always seem so calculated, so certain. Never more than he means to explain. In other senses, they’re so different. _He’s happier_ , Cullen had noticed first, when they’d first met, _in spite of the hardship,_ and then _he’s more trusting_ and _he’s less temperamental_ and _he smiles more_ but when he does, it’s the same as Ellinor’s—the same as her genuine smile, anyway; he’s had long enough to tell the difference between her etiquette and her joy.

Even in appearance, their similarities ebb and flow. They’ve the same eyes—dark brown, almond-shaped—and the same complexion. Ellinor had said once to Josephine that she’s the color of Vivienne’s coffee, _with a little cream_ , and that Lyssa looks like Cullen’s— _too milky, golden._ He’s met Lyssa, and now Avery, and _of course, they’re twins_ , he knows, but the way they mirror one another in looks is astounding to him. Then again, Avery is tall—nearly Cullen’s height—where Ellinor is petite, and their _hair_. While Cullen’s rarely seen Ellinor’s out of the usual crown braid Josephine does for her, Avery’s hair is long, ragged. Nearly shoulder-length in places, and his facial hair grows just as untidy—short, still, but untidy. _Clean-shaven in the Circles_ , Cullen remembers—at least that was the case in Kinloch and Kirkwall; he wonders now if the same restrictions were upheld in Ostwick, in Tantervale, in Cumberland. The way Avery cares little to maintain his beard suggests otherwise.

“Shall we?” Avery prompts, and Cullen nods, allowing him the first move.

 _I may have to ask you to go easy on me,_ he’d requested, but then, _it isn’t a race_ , and once Avery pushes a pawn forward, Cullen takes his time, pausing, collected. Hoping Avery doesn’t take note of the tremors in his fingers as he sets his fingertips at the edge of the board.

“I was taught by my older sister,” he says, an attempt at conversation, at distracting from his appearance, finally moving a piece.

“So was I.”

Cullen purses his lips thoughtfully. “Lyssa?” he asks, trying and failing to remember Ellinor’s second-oldest sister’s name, but _surely he can’t mean_ —

“Bryony, actually,” Avery clarifies. “My father insisted I learn something of strategy at quite a young age. I was told I’d be learning from the best—his favorite, really.” He chuckles. “I’m not actually sure it did much good.”

“No?”

“No. I was never much for strategizing and pulling clever tricks or games. He’d have been better off investing Bryony’s time in Ellinor, and instead, she never learned. Not during our childhood, at least.” He ponders for a moment before moving another piece. “I imagine she’s dreadful at chess, actually.”

Cullen can’t help but laugh at that, though it’s more of a humored smile than a genuine laugh. “She’s not very good,” he admits, and Avery smiles.

“She’s said the same of you, actually. Interestingly, Dorian’s told me quite the opposite—that you’re an insufferable winner and that if it weren’t for his cheating, he may never beat you.”

“I assure you,” mutters Cullen, “he doesn’t.”

“I thought he may have lied about that part, yes.”

They play for several minutes now in silence, with only the quiet movements of stone pieces against stone and the crackles and sparks of spellcasting across the yard to accompany their game. He only ever holds such silence with Leliana, who prefers to play without conversation. Dorian, on the other hand, talks far too much, _and Ellinor…_ Truthfully, he can’t find complaint in his games with Ellinor, other than that they always end too soon.

“But,” Avery continues, surveying the board. “I don’t think he was lying about your skill. And Ellinor is neither a liar nor one to play halfheartedly.”

Cullen shifts in his seat, gripping the edge if only to steady his fingers, understanding Avery’s implications but unwilling to acknowledge them. _It’s not like that,_ he wants to tell him, and yet saying so would only encourage his speculation, and so he remains silent, eyes on the board, anticipating Avery’s next move—which is of course a perfect prediction, moving his queen right into the trap Cullen had been working to set for the past several terms. It’s whether he wants to continue carrying the game or revert to the facade he puts on for Ellinor that he can’t decide.

“You know, Cullen,” says Avery when Cullen ultimately gives up, takes his queen. “I haven’t seen Bryony in many years. I haven’t played chess with her in even longer than that. But I do remember what it’s like to play against someone so much better than you.”

He swallows. “Oh?”

“It’s no fun at all. In fact, the more I lost, the less I wanted to set the board for a second game. But on the rare chance that I won, I’d think, ‘hey, that was pretty good, I can try again.’ Either way, the losses were disheartening. As they would be for anyone.”

He can’t deny it; he’d experienced the very same countless times playing against Mia.

“And Ellinor is far less patient than I am.”

 _Oh_.

At his dumbfounded expression, Avery grins, pushing a pawn across the board, shaking his head. “You let her win so she’ll play another game with you, don’t you?”

“No,” Cullen says stupidly.

The answer is, rather, _yes. Yes, of course_.

“You care for her,” he says abruptly. It’s not a question. It’s an accusation.

 _A fact_.

Cullen can only gape at him. He’s beginning to feel a bit lightheaded. Nothing out of the ordinary. “I—no, I...well, of course, I mean, she’s Andraste’s chosen and—and an excellent leader,” he stammers. “We could not have ask for better...what I mean to say is, we _all_ care for her.”

 _There. A perfectly neutral answer_.

Avery takes a deep breath, eyes lingering out to the yard where Bridget demonstrates a chain lightning spell to the group of young mages, much to their awe and excitement.

“I see.”

His words are calm, collected; _he’s so like her and yet somehow not at all_.

“Why did you bring me here?” he asks suddenly. Whatever game had been going on their board, it’s forgotten now. “An act of charity? As benefit for the Inquisition?”

“No,” Cullen says, shaking his head, that familiar feeling of dread returning to him. “Avery, I’ve...I’ve done a lot of wrong in my past. Things I’m sure Ellinor will have told you about, by now.”

“She hasn’t.”

“She would have,” he insists. “Before. She had been my constant reminder. One I needed, whether or not I had realized or admitted it at the time.” He takes a deep breath, lets it out in one long, ragged, drawn-out exhale. “Did I want to begin to atone for what I’d done? Perhaps. Yes.”

“Why _me_ though?” Avery pushes. “Surely Bridget and I were not the easiest to track down.”

 _No, you were not._ He shakes his head once more.

“I would see her happy.”

_The truth._

“As would I,” Avery replies, and in a swift motion, Cullen has him at checkmate. The game is over. He rises from his chair, and the rush of blood flowing over him accentuates the dull headache that had grown in the back of his head over the past hour. He bows once to Avery, waves to Bridget across the way, and turns back once more before leaving for his quarters for the rest of the night.

“That is not for me to act upon, Avery,” he says, resigned. “Good night, and farewell for now, if I don’t see you before our departure in the morning.”

* * *

_Commander,_

_We’ve spotted an alarming number of red templars along the Sahrnia area of the Emprise du Lion. The region is strewn with red lyrium, and my units have reported many of our own falling ill around the town and the quarry. Something is not right here. We will investigate further._

_—Captain Val Rollins_

* * *

It’s not until he returns to his quarters that he gives up, lets go of the pent-up exhaustion and discomfort that had grown in him over the course of the afternoon in a fit of gasps, sweat, shaking. It’s all he can do to collapse into his desk chair and close his eyes and breathe, _just breathe_ , and he’s grateful for the pitcher of water he’d left beside his paperwork earlier that morning because at least now it’s in reach. He’s not entirely convinced he would be able to rise and retrieve it at the moment, and though the thought displeases him, he pushes it aside, pours a cup of water with shaking hands, and drinks.

He’s not quite sure how much time passes before he’s caught his breath. Enough to allow him to empty the pitcher of water and for the sweat to cool on his skin, bringing him to shiver in the cool evening air descending from the upper floor of his tower. Enough that the dull hue of purple-pink outside his window has turned to deep blue, to stars against black. Certainly enough that he’s no longer on the verge of fainting when there’s a knock at the door and the visitor takes no cares to wait before opening it.

“Lady—Ellinor,” he says at the sight of her, scrambling to straighten his posture even at the cost of the piercing pain ripping through his skull. _Just Ellinor_ , he reminds himself, and she closes the door behind her softly, balancing a tray in both hands, approaching his desk with careful steps and a worried look.

“I’d heard you were unwell.”

 _From who?_ he wants to growl—would, were it anyone but _her_ with her soft eyes and quiet voice and concerned lips and _when did we get like this?_ he wonders at the way she enters with kindness and grace and defenses down and sharp words of the past forgotten.

Instead, he shakes his head. “It’s nothing.”

She ignores him, shoving aside a stack of papers to set the tray atop his desk. _A teapot,_ he notes, and a pot of honey with a wooden wand like the one his mother had kept in their kitchen when he was a boy. He watches as she reaches into her jacket pocket for a sachet of tea, pouring the contents immediately into his now-empty water cup.

 _I know this scent_.

 _It’s lavender_ , he knows immediately, _and elfroot and peppermint_ ; he knows because it’s the same tea he’d been given on her trip away to the Emerald Graves. The same he’d thought had come from Marie, or from Josephine.

“Where did you get this?” he asks her as she spoons honey into the cup before adding the water to the mix. She doesn’t answer him. But he thinks on the times she’s presented Josephine with sachets of tea she’d made, times he’s overheard her promising Dorian a blend of his own leaves, times he’s passed her and Vivienne in the great hall trading uses for the common herbs the two of them often collected during their travels. And finally he reflects on her last trip to the Emerald Graves, on the same tea that had been delivered to his quarters with meals and the way he’d thanked Josephine for it—who else might have thought to prompt Marie to send his meals to his office when he’d forgotten? He certainly hadn’t considered Ellinor at the time and yet no one else knew of his headaches and withdrawals save for Cassandra—perhaps the most unlikely to ever send an unsolicited remedy out of kindness. _It couldn’t be,_ he thinks, and still he must ask. “Have you been sending this to me?” he breathes, and again she waits, continuing to stir the mixture before tapping the spoon against the side of the glass, setting it down, crossing her arms before him.

“Does it help?”

_Maker’s breath._

He can only nod, and it seems that that is answer enough for her. “The elfroot is more palatable if you add honey,” she explains softly, placing the cup and saucer gently in front of him. “But the royal elfroot is less bitter than regular elfroot, so it doesn’t _need_ it. I only thought that since you take your coffee with sugar, you might prefer it a little sweet.”

“You know how I take my coffee?”

This, she ignores as well. “And anyway,” she adds quickly, “the honey is better on your throat if it’s raw—if you’ve been ill, I mean, and—”

“Ellinor.”

She looks up abruptly, wide-eyed— _she’s never so timid with her words_ —

“You don’t have to do this. For me, I mean.”

“I’d like to,” she says quietly, and even for the tea and honey sliding down his throat when he swallows, his mouth feels dry, his tongue at a loss for words.

“Th-thank you, then,” he says in a near whisper.

 _She’s not looking for thanks_.

“Are you ready?” she asks him. “For tomorrow?”

They’re to leave before dawn—if he’s being truthful, both of them should be in bed by now to get the rest they need, though he doubts he’ll sleep much tonight. “As ready as I can be to spend a night among Orlesian nobility,” he admits. “At least we’ve done it before.”

“And is your Orlesian ready?”

He can’t help but crack a smile at that, and at his lead, she smiles back. “I can only hope. I’ve had the most capable instructor, at the very least.”

She laughs, looks down to her shoes, still smiling, and _Maker_ , he can’t remember her always being quite so breathtaking. “I have every ounce of faith in you,” she says encouraging, and he takes another sip from his cup. “Tu seras excellent.”

“Merci,” he manages, and he knows she must take pity on him now because she doesn’t correct him as normal, _mehr-see, not ‘mercy.’_

She smiles at him once more, somehow content with his response. “I won’t keep you,” she says softly. “I only wanted—I only came to see that you were feeling all right.”

“Ah, yes,” he stammers. “Better now with…” He gestures at the teapot and honey before him. “But—are you all right? Surely you must be nervous.”

Her smile falters—if only for a second, but it does.

He sees.

“No,” she says reassuringly, flashing a grin, a _new_ smile, one controlled and practiced. “Foil an ambush and a scandal under the pretense of a society gathering? It’s nothing I haven’t done many times.”


	23. Weakness

“Something is troubling you,” Cullen says quietly, pulling his horse up beside hers as they ride.

They’re nearly to Halamshiral now, the snowy slopes of the Frostbacks having made way to green, to the rolling hills of the Dales. It is their final day of travel, Josephine had informed them that morning, and so they all needed to dress in the Inquisition-issued uniform they’d been fitted for weeks prior. _That means you as well, Ellinor_ , she’d said, and Sera had whined _but I want to see Ellie’s fancy dress_ and _I want to see Cully faint when she puts it—_ but Cassandra had silenced her in an instant and Josephine continued as though she’d been uninterrupted: _Ellinor, you will change into your gown upon our arrival, but until then, you must wear proper formal riding attire. As will the rest of us._

“Nothing,” she lies easily. Or so she thinks. She’d grown accustomed to hiding her feelings, her thoughts, but Cullen is persistent now where he never has been.

“Is it Avery?” he asks.

 _Like he knows_.

She chokes up. She can blame it on the dust from riding, or the sun in her eyes, or the way her jacket fits tight across her chest and around her throat. Once, she might have lied. “He wants to leave,” she whispers instead, thinking back to the morning they’d left Skyhold.

He’d met her in the courtyard when they were to depart, even when it was only sunrise and he had nowhere to be and she’d said her goodbyes to him and Bridget the night before. As soon as she’d spotted him crossing the grass, she knew something was wrong. _Avery?_ she’d whispered, glancing around for any signs of the others but they were too busy packing their horses and the carriage Josephine and Dorian were to ride in on their way.

And Avery was never one to hide his thoughts. _Ell,_ he’d greeted her, a small smile on his face—one lacking any joy at all. _I wanted to talk to you before you left._

 _About what?_ she’d asked sharply, and his smile disappeared.

 _We can’t stay here forever_ , he’d told her, his words falling like rocks, like weights on her body and she thought surely she’d heard wrong; surely the horses neighing in the background and the calls of Josephine sounding direction to her traveling party had drowned out his words and distorted their meaning.

 _I’m sorry?_ she’d asked, her voice distant even to her own ears, and he tried the smile again, a wordless apology, and she knew in that moment that what he’d said was true.

 _Why?_ she’d demanded immediately, hoping a front of anger might hide the fear and the panic she felt inside but _it’s Avery_ , she could not fool him, and he’d sighed, long, slow, resigned; _he knew how I’d take it_ and yet still he’d sat calmly beside her on the stone steps of the keep, Sera and Dorian and Cassandra passing them by in turn, keeping a polite distance as they would for any two friends’ farewell.

“I’m sorry,” Cullen says softly as they ride along the dirt road side by side, and she wants to ask _why_ , after all he did to try and bring Avery to Skyhold, _he_ might be the one to feel sorry.

 _Why?_ she’d asked Avery a second time, and he shook his head.

 _These mages here_ , he’d explained calmly. _Your allies were our brothers and sisters once. We were all of the Circle, at one time or another. Me and Bridget and Fiona and Vivienne and all of us, except maybe for Solas. And Dorian._

 _But?_ she’d prompted, her gloves tightening at her knuckles as she pulled her fingers into fists.

_But Bridget and I left. We no longer belong._

_You belong with your family._

_To do what, Ell?_ he’d asked, exasperated. _Would the Inquisition lock us up like the Circle did?_

It had, at the time, felt like a slap in the face. Even now, days later, his words still sting.

 _No,_ she’d insisted, _never_ and _the mages work with us as our allies, a penance for the destruction they brought to Redcliffe with the Venatori and—_

 _A destruction I played no part in_ , he’d insisted. _Do you see? I’m not one of them anymore. They won’t accept me or Bridget as they once had. Nor should they. Nor do I want them to._

“How soon?” Cullen asks her, and Ellinor shakes her head.

“I don’t know,” she replies, defeated. “Not until after our return.” _He promised._

“Where will he go?”

She tightens her fingers around the reins of her horse. “I don’t know. I suppose he doesn’t, either.”

“I’m sure,” he says with difficulty, “that it’s not you—”

“Of course it’s not me!” she snaps. “It’s us! It’s the Inquisition, it’s Skyhold. Cullen, I spent my _life_ trying to find him so he wouldn’t have to run anymore and I was too late! Running is all he knows!” She wants to apologize to Cullen nearly as soon as the words have left his mouth. He’s only trying to help. _Again_.

“There must be something we can do,” he says thoughtfully, unbothered. “To help him.”

“He’s already very certain.” She’s blinking back tears now, of frustration or sadness, she’s unsure. Perhaps a little of both. She doesn’t bother hiding them from Cullen. _Not anymore_. And as they ride together, in silence, she lets them fall, one by one for a short time until the rooftop of the Winter Palace rises before them like the Frostbacks they’d left behind days earlier and she must put on her _Herald_ face, her _Inquisitor_ face, her _Lady Trevelyan_ face as they ride forward at a marching pace now, with purpose and elegance and determination.

“Ellinor,” Cullen says, voice barely a whisper as they approach the cobblestone path leading to the great estate. “I won’t let you lose him again.”

* * *

_Varric_

_Crestwood, maybe. Hope not. Place is shit and gives me the creeps. Don’t say anything until I confirm._

_Hawke_

* * *

Their arrival went as Josephine had planned—better, possibly, thanks Dorian and Leliana, who immediately engaged the nobility mingling outside in the palace courtyard with grace and wit as the party got their bearings. And as planned, Josephine had whisked her away to one of the smaller outbuildings to change into her gown—one of deep crimson, short sleeves falling off the shoulder, sweeping skirts, floral motifs along the bodice. Quick handiwork— _Josie magic_ , Ellinor had murmured, to which the ambassador had only laughed—had her hair tied in an elegant knot in little time. And there were introductions. The Grand Duke, most notably, but other nobles as well, hailing from Orlais to Nevarra to Antiva and anywhere in between. By the time she’d met everyone on the outside of the palace, the rest of her party had ventured inside.

“If I may,” Gaspard offers, holding out his arm for her, and she takes it.

The inside of the Winter Palace is opulent—gaudy even, in places, dripping with decoration and possession only a conqueror of the Orlesian Empire could pass off as stylish—and its guests are no less extravagant. Sera grins at the sight of her in her red dress— _red dress for a Red Jenny_ , she thinks she mouths, but she can’t be sure—and Dorian nods with an approving eyebrow raised. Cassandra thinks the gown is too much—she can see it in her eyes—but even see gives a nod of respect, of support.

It’s Cullen’s reaction she’s looking for.

And yet she finds that he’s not looking at her at all.

“—and Lady Ellinor Aria Trevelyan of Ostwick, Inquisitor and Herald of Andraste.”

The crows applaud wildly at her introduction and she’s forced to tear her eyes from Cullen, at least for now, as the Inquisition spreads out, takes their positions among the grand ballroom and the vestibule outside it.

She has a job to do. And yet after checking in with Leliana, and then with Josephine—and after meeting Yvette Montilyet, herself a guest of Empress Celene’s—she finds herself seeking out Cullen again, searching the vestibule and finally the ballroom until she finds him, encircled by a group of women giggling and chattering and fawning over him, red faced, speechess, lost.

“A word, Commander,” she announces before the group, and the women part instantly, allowing her to take him by the arm and down the mezzanine. _He still won’t look at me_ , she thinks; he avoids eye contact more stringently than he would avoid the Herald’s Rest on a lively night but _I won’t take it personally._ No, _I shouldn’t._

“Any news?” she asks him when they’ve strolled far enough out of earshot. Immediately he sticks his fingers inside the collar of his jacket, tugging as though to loosen it, _to breathe_.

“I should ask you the same thing,” he mumbles, flushed, eyes downcast. “There’s little I can learn from that crowd. They’re awful, they’re—I’ve already had to refuse _countless_ dances, and every time I even bother speaking in Orlesian they just giggle at my pronunciation and grab hold of my arms and, and—”

“Have they hurt you?”

He furrows his brow, troubled. “I—well, no, I understand now that I must seem like I’m complaining—”

 _Oh, Cullen_. She keeps her distance—she won’t startle him further—but raises her hand up, _no_ , she thinks; _this isn’t what I mean_. “I’m not admonishing you, Cullen,” she says softly, using his name for the first time since before they’d arrived at the Winter Palace, and he flinches just once before his expression softens and he looks up to meet her eyes for the first time since she’d been introduced escorted by Grand Duke Gaspard. Cullen opens his mouth slightly, as though to speak, but closes it again. “I’m serious,” she continues when it becomes evident he won’t continue. “If they’ve in any way acted inappropriate...crossed any boundaries...”

“It’s nothing you should concern yourself—”

“Cullen.”

He purses his lips. “Josephine would not like you to make a scene,” he says quietly. The matter is closed, and he clears his throat. “I have no news to give you, Ellinor. Not on Gaspard and Celene, not yet. Though—I can assure you, the soldiers we’ve brought are the finest we have. They will be ready at a moment’s notice, should you uncover anything. When it’s time.”

She nods. “Very well,” she replies, not at his report but at his dismissal. _He doesn’t trust me_ , she thinks first, but then worse, _he doesn’t think it matters_ and _he doesn’t think his safety or his comfort matters._

 _It matters to me_.

“I’ll check back when I can,” she promises, offering a curtsy for meant more for show than anything else; _there are eyes on you_ and _they are always watching._

“I will be fine,” he tells her.

 _A lie_.

“Take care of yourself first—don’t worry about me.”

_Commander, I can do both._

“All right,” she says softly, taking her leave and heading not for the library as Leliana had suggested to her but for Sera.

“I need your help,” she says through gritted teeth, clasping her hands together.

She might as well have spoken to herself. “Ellie,” sings Sera, completely ignoring her, leaning along the bannister over the dancefloor. She beckons her to come closer, nods at the revelry below. “A friend,” she says with devious grin, pointing among the dancers.

“Sera, I—a Jenny?” she asks, thrown off. _It’s impolite to squint,_ her mother’s voice echoes in her mind, and so she peers over the twirling figures one by one, over the bystanders lining the floor and waiting their turn and it occurs to her now that of course not all Red Jennys are Sera, and she’s not at all sure of what she’s looking for.

Sera snorts. “Not _my_ friend,” she snickers. “Yours.” She stands behind Ellinor now, presses her palms over her cheeks, directing her line of sight toward the _friend_ she means. “Pink dress,” she mutters. “Bit ugly if you ask me, but don’t you see her?”

She does. Tall and slender and draped in silks of pale rose, dark chocolate locks pinned up atop her head in an elegant balance, cooling herself leisurely with a feathered fan as she laughs and chatters with a group of women standing around her.

 _Lyssa,_ she thinks. _Of course._

“I cannot _believe_ ,” she growls, and Sera only giggles more.

“I can. You think Lady Lyssie’s going to miss a precious second of her high society? For what? Don’t think so, Ellie.”

“She knows I’m here,” Ellinor mutters. “ _Everyone_ knows I’m here. They announced us so loudly I thought they might hear it all the way in the Approach.”

“Right?” Sera cackles. “Thought Cass was gonna do him in. The one shouting all our names, and—”

“Why hasn’t she said anything to me?”

Sera shrugs. “Waiting on an invitation, maybe. Maybe you’re too important for poor Lyssie now. Not too important for me, though.”

She gives her a halfhearted smile. “Never, I hope.” _But it’s not like Lyssa to avoid her._ In fact, _it’s quite the opposite._ “I’m going to go talk to her,” she decides, because it’s either _confront Lyssa_ or _let Lyssa confront me_ and she will not run away from a Trevelyan. _No, I will come for her._

“Hey!” Sera says when she turns for the grand staircase. “What’d you want me for, anyway?”

 _Of course._ “Right,” she says, lowering her voice to a discreet whisper, and Sera, for all her usual antics, plays along. “Do you see the women standing around Cullen?”

“Like flies around a pig, yeah.”

“He—” _It’s not worth arguing_. “Yes, them. And do you happen to have the rashvine poison I made for you a couple weeks ago?”

“Almost dumped the whole thing in Madame de Fart’s robes the other day, but—”

“Do you have it?” Ellinor presses.

“Yeah, yeah!” Sera says, throwing up her hands defensively. “Got it here in my pocket, right? Think I know what you mean. I’ll take care of it, you go and give Lyssie hell for me, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Ellinor mutters slowly. She steals a quick glance back at Cullen, whose attempts at fending off the predatory women are failing—he looks pale, shaken, even, and her heart aches for him—before descending the staircase.

The grand ballroom is decadently decorated, streaming with glitter and ribbon and twirling with dancers and gossipers alike as the Empress’ musicians play a waltz for the reveler’s enjoyment. Nobles smile, curtsy at her as she walks by as though she’s the Empress herself— _no,_ she thinks, _you are more_ , _you are the Inquisitor_. She smiles at each of them in turn, keeps her posture straight and her hands at her sides even as she promises a few dances to comptes and wealthy merchants whose names she’d never learned, much less might remember, all the while making a steady pace and following the distinct pink color Sera had pointed out to her from above.

“Lyssa,” she says simply when she meets her, and her sister whips around.

“Ellie,” she breathes.

Her Orlesian friends can only stare, fake smiles plastered to their over-powdered faces as they look from Lyssa to Ellinor and back.

“Excusez-moi, mesdames,” she says with a smile only Lyssa can see through. They women nod back politely, _mais oui_ and _bien sûr_ and nervous laughter each until they’re all gone and it’s Ellinor and Lyssa in the middle of the crowds, the dancers, the masked men and women.

“Were you avoiding me?” she asks, pleasantries forgotten, the only remnants of her warm facade present in the demure rosy flush on her cheeks. Lyssa frowns.

“You made your feelings toward me very clear during our last meeting, Ellie.”

She ignores this. “Did you know I would be here tonight?”

“There were rumors of an Inquisition presence at Celene’s ball, yes,” Lyssa tells her. “If you’re going to ask whether I chose to attend because I thought you might also, the answer is no.”

“Then you’re here for fun?” she inquires, regretting—at least somewhat—the daggers in her voice when she speaks. “Is Mathieu not here as well?”

Lyssa nods. “Speaking with friends from Kirkwall, actually. They're around here somewhere.”

 _So close to home_. How like Lyssa, to come to a party in Halamshiral only to spend time with friends from the Free Marches. “What are you here for?” she asks, slowly, clearer this time. “Among so much nobility from so many corners of Thedas? Your reach is far, Lyssa, but I doubt even you might have connections such as these.” Lyssa says nothing, and it clicks.

 _Bryony_.

“You still haven’t heard from her, have you?” she asks coldly, and Lyssa purses her lips.

“Have you heard from Avery?” she counters; she means it as a taunt but Lyssa has never been good at taunting and at the slight flicker of fear, sadness in Ellinor’s eyes, she gasps softly. “You have, Ellie,” she whispers, the crease in her brow softening as her lips moved into a hopeful smile. “Is he all right? Is he—do you know where he is?”

“He’s safe,” she replies, hard, cautious, removed, distant. _No more._

But Lyssa knows. “Oh, Ellie,” she murmurs. “You’ve seen him, haven’t you? He’s—is he _with_ you? Not now, of course, but...is he with the Inquisition?”

“Temporarily. He wants to...he needs to move. Soon. For his safety and…” She trails off, unwilling to give Lyssa any more information than she already had, which was of course more than she’d ever wanted.

“Where?” Lyssa presses. “I’d love to see him and—oh Ellie, do you think he’d like to see me? To visit Val Royeaux, maybe, on his way to…?”

She wants to say _no_ and _of course not_ and _not after the way you watched him leave_ but she doesn’t. For his sake.

 _She’s not like you, Ell,_ he’d said when they’d last spoken of Lyssa and he’d been right.

“Perhaps,” Ellinor says tersely. “Lyssa. I—”

“Inquisitor.”

She turns around. _Cullen._

“Commander,” she says, surprised.

“Lady Trevelyan,” he says with a stoic air of courtesy she nearly doesn’t recognize in him. His face is still pale, the thin sheen of unease still visibly upon his face but his voice is still and his words calm. “Lady LeClaire. If I may.”

Lyssa gapes. _Stares_. She recognizes him from the Wiscotte gala; she’d assumed then that Cullen was her lover. “By all means,” she says, giving Ellinor a stern look. “Ser…”

“Rutherford,” Ellinor and Cullen reply simultaneously, and Lyssa’s frown twitches upward into a curious smirk, if only for a moment.

“See Rutherford, of course,” Lyssa says warmly. “But I should like to speak with my sister again once more before the evening ends.”

“You shall,” Cullen says with a sharp nod, holding his arm out to Ellinor. She takes it eagerly, bids a not-at-all _sorry_ to Lyssa as they leave. “Josephine is concerned,” he says quietly. “As is Leliana. Time is precious and...you don’t need me to tell you this, Ellinor.”

She shakes her head. “I was distracted,” she admits. “Tell them I apologize. I won’t stray from our task again, not until...well, until it’s all solved, I suppose.”

“You don’t need to reassure me,” he says quietly. “I believe you.”

She squeezes his arm once, looks back at the ballroom to Lyssa, Josie, Sera. “I’ll be off, then,” she manages, and he nods. “Will you be all right?” He nods again.

_The library._

“Ellinor!” he calls after her, _begging_ her before she goes. “I…” His voice trails off.

“I’ll return with more information,” she promises, and he shakes his head.

“That’s not…” His eyes plead with her. “Be _careful_. Please.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> endless thanks and love to [satsumadraws](https://satsumadraws.tumblr.com) who sent me [this beautiful artwork of avery](https://satsumadraws.tumblr.com/post/184257656133/ive-been-so-captivated-by-bitchesofostwicks) last week! i am still in awe <3


	24. A Party of Two (Reprise)

No sooner does Ellinor depart for the library than Cullen is left alone again, and this time on the ballroom floor. This time, with Lyssa. He’s not sure if it’s better or worse than the Orlesian girls upstairs in the mezzanine. Truthfully, he’s not sure how to feel about much of anything at all. The ball is definitively worse than the gala he’d attended with Ellinor previously—more people, higher society, wandering hands, dance proposals, _marriage proposals_ —though he’s thinking that, or at least hoping, that one woman had been joking—and his jacket’s too tight and the Inquisition’s members are spread too thin and he feels all alone in a palace full of people and _Maker, if Ellinor gets hurt..._

“Ser Rutherford, is it?” Lyssa asks softly when Ellinor’s disappeared into the gardens and out of sight. “I do recall you’ve escorted my sister to a ball before. The Wiscotte gala, yes?”

“I…” Cullen begins. “I—yes, although ‘escort’ may not be the best—”

“But you were there.”

Like Avery, Lyssa is so like and unlike Ellinor all at once. Her words are calculated, but soft spoken, her smile practiced but kind. She’s taller, thin where Ellinor is small, she wears pale pink to Ellinor’s deep crimson gown, her complexion is delicate, lighter than her sister’s, her movements gentle, meek, soft.

“Will you dance?” she asks, and he nearly chokes on the air he breathes.

“N-no,” he stammers, “no, I...I’m sorry, I’ve no time to...um. No.”

He decides in an instant that the ballroom floor is quite possibly worse than the mezzanine.

But Lyssa only smiles. It’s not like Ellinor—it’s soft, demure. _Perhaps even genuine_ but though he knows little of the Game, he knows enough not to trust a noble farther than he can throw them.

“That’s all right,” she says, clasping her gloved hands together. “It’s never fun dancing with someone when you have your heart set on a different partner.”

“I’m not...sure that I follow,” he says weakly. Lyssa only flashes him a knowing smile—one that fades quickly when she turns her eyes downcast, looking to the floor.

“Ellinor says there’s news of my brother,” she says quietly. “That he’s with the Inquisition at Skyhold.”

He clears his throat. He knows Ellinor would not have divulged much information herself; for all Lyssa’s apparent kindness, her feelings toward her sister have been made clear to him far too many times for him to speak freely.

“He is,” is all he can reply.

“She’s looked for him for so long— _too_ long, if you ask our parents. If they knew she’d finally found him—”

“She didn’t,” he speaks up, clenching his fists at the very thought of the Lord and Lady Trevelyan who’d sought nothing but notoriety from the Inquisition’s cause, their _daughter’s_ cause. He does not know Lyssa but he won’t risk the chance of letting her know anything but the truth, or anything that could hurt Ellinor. “She’s taken her duties to the Inquisition very seriously,” he clarifies. “She did not pursue her search of your brother after we’d left Haven.”

“Then how did he come to Skyhold?” she asks, her curiosity every so precise, _directed_.

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to. Like Ellinor, she’s clever, perceptive, and she raises her eyebrows just so, another knowing smile pulling at her lips.

“You must care for her a great deal,” she observes, and he takes a deep breath.

“I do.”

“I could see it in the way you looked at her.”

“I don’t believe—”

“She looks at you the same way,” Lyssa continues, and his heart feels heavy in his chest. “You know, she’s hardly had the opportunity to care for someone before.”

“That’s not quite what she’s told me,” he says quietly, and she tilts her head, nods, hiding her expression briefly behind her feathered fan.

“Forgive me,” she agrees. “I should say that she’s hardly had the opportunity to be cared for by someone else before. Properly, that is.”

 _First Avery, and now Lyssa._ He half expects Reilly to travel in from Tevinter and suggest he propose marriage to her sister.

“Yes, well, I…” he mumbles, but what can he tell her? _I’m not sure she’d like me to care for her_ or _it’s hardly the time_ or simply _we’re at war, you know_ , but she interrupts him anyway, leaves him with no time for an answer.

“I should thank you, you know,” she says softly. “For watching over my sister, and for finding my brother. Two things perhaps I should have done myself, years ago, had I half the tenacity our Ellinor has.”

“She is nothing if not determined,” he admits, unsure of what else to say to her.

“That she is, Ser Rutherford,” she says cordially, her former smile returning as she glances over his shoulder. He turns in time to find Cassandra descending the stairs. “And this is where I say goodbye, I believe.” Lyssa sinks into a curtsy and he bows quickly in return, glad for Cassandra’s approach when Lyssa departs, crossing the ballroom, no doubt to her husband or her friends.

“Have you seen Ellinor?” Cassandra asks. Her mere presence alone has sent whatever noblewomen had looked to take advantage of Lyssa’s departure scattering as well, and though Cullen needs more than two hands to count the times the Seeker has saved him from some sort of horrible situation or another, he’s certain times like these could top the list.

“I have,” he swallows, thinking back to their formal introduction to the ball, _though I tried not to stare._ She’d worn a gown of deep red, darker than the uniforms he and the others wore, with lighter fabric too—layers and layers of filmy material beneath a silk skirt, floral details scattered throughout her bodice and reaching down to her waist—and short sleeves draping off each shoulder. He coughs once, maintaining his composure. “Yes,” he continues, “she looks...lovely, truth be told. I see why Josephine was so intent on her wearing different attire than the rest of us. I’ve never—I’d never put much thought into how appearance might make such a statement at a political venture such as this but she...the color—red, um, suits her, and…” He trails off, realizing only then at the sight of her unimpressed gaze that Cassandra might be asking not if he’d seen Ellinor that night but if he’d seen her _recently_. “Um, no. Not since she left for the library.”

Cassandra frowns. He finds her expression severe _normally_ ; tonight her lips are pursed in a straight line seemingly set in stone, her eyes dark and sharp and a layer of concern only those closest to her might notice betraying her otherwise cold appearance. She makes for the staircase once more, back up to the mezzanine, and they walk closely, side by side. Carefully. “I do not like this,” she says simply when they’re out of earshot from the partygoers downstairs.

He laughs wryly. “You think I do?”

She raises one eyebrow as they continue up the stairs, ignoring Sera as she darts around the mezzanine. _She better not let Josephine catch her in whatever she’s up to_ , Cullen thinks bitterly, but Cassandra clears her throat. “You of all people, Cullen, have the most reason to be worried.”

When they reach the top of the stairs, they’re greeted by his second- and third-in-command for the mission—Lieutenant Forrester and another, younger officer, Sergeant Dell.

“Commander, ser,” they say in unison, saluting him and Cassandra. At once they both raise a single hand in return, and Lieutenant Forrester pipes up.

“We’ve stationed troops in the areas you directed, ser. Their instructions have been made clear. We await your orders.”

“Very well,” he nods. “Thank you, Beth. It seems all we can do is wait, now.” Cassandra nods. “In the meantime, the two of you should mind the courtyard and the gardens. Anywhere we may be undermanned is an opportunity for our would-be assassin.”

“But ser,” Sergeant Dell tries. “Shouldn’t...isn’t the Inquisitor in the gardens now? If she’s working there or near the library, I shouldn’t like to attract any attention to—”

“It was not a suggestion, Sergeant,” he interrupts her, speaking through gritted teeth, the leather of his gloves pulling at his knuckles as he clenches his fists.

“Aye, ser.” She nods once, salutes again, and she and Forrester are off.

“She’s right, Cullen,” Cassandra comments when the two have disappeared again out through the vestibule. “Ellinor works best under her own coverage. It is unwise to—”

“I will not have her working without backup,” he cuts in. “Not tonight.”

She can only shake her head. “Cullen,” she says softly, “she’ll be all right.”

* * *

_Mother and Father,_

_It is with sorrow that I must tell you I have not had the opportunity to see or speak to Ellinor in quite some time, and that I cannot be sure why she’s yet to have reached out to you. I will of course write to her again upon my return from Empress Celene’s ball. In the meantime, Mathieu and I are enjoying our stay at Halamshiral. There is an Inquisition presence among the festivities, though I’ve not met anyone who seems to know Ellinor personally._

_My love to both of you, and Reilly if you see her soon,_

_Lyssa_

_Signed Lady Lyssa Ariela LeClaire._

* * *

It is, in the end, nearly three hours before he is sure that, as Cassandra had promised, Ellinor was all right. And it is, in the end, the courtyard where she had met Florianne, the could-have-been assassin. By some grace of the Maker, she emerges victorious and more importantly unharmed. Unscathed.

He does not overlook the spatter of blood along the hem of her skirts but he knows in her gait, in the way she carries herself, in the sight of the knives a soldier offers to relieve her of—silverite stained with crimson—that it does not belong to her. Murmurs ripple through the crowd, _la grande duchesse_ and _il y a avait une battaille_ and _elle est morte_ and _l’inquisitrice!_ but he waits, stands tall, until Forrester and Dell report in, climbing the stairs two at a time to meet him in the mezzanine and confirming the rumors and that _the Inquisitor is safe_ and he’s only able to nod wordlessly, swallow his relief as he stares on, down below to where she stands recounting the events to Celene.

“Ser,” prompts Forrester.

“Yes. Right.” He clears his throat, tearing his eyes from Ellinor; _she’s safe, you have nothing to fear now_. “Secure the premises. Do not cause any further alarm. I don’t want to hear any complaints from Ambassador Montilyet or the empress’ guard for any lack of discretion. Understood?”

“Yes, ser.”

They exchange salutes as Celene speaks to the crowd below, and they applaud, and they cheer, and Ellinor smiles— _but I know that smile_ , he thinks, and he can see it in her eyes, _she is weary_ , _let her rest_.

Still, she is safe.

_Maker, know my thanks._

It’s the first time since leaving Skyhold that he feels he can breathe properly. It’s as though he’s been holding his breath since their departure, as though he should be gasping for air at the completion of their mission and yet the very sight of her alone is enough to quell his nerves, his fears. No sooner does Celene cease speaking than the revelers resume their dances, their music, and it’s as though the threat had never existed, like it had been a story made for their entertainment and thrill.

 _Ungrateful_ , he thinks, angry that he’s surprised at all. _Orlais…_ And when he looks for her again she’s been swept away, this time by Lyssa and only for a moment, only a few words exchanged before they part again; he makes a mental note to ask her about it later, _perhaps tomorrow_ but _no more tonight, she’s had enough._ There is no rest for her. When she’s finished with Lyssa, it’s Leliana stealing her away, hand in hand with a woman in a deep purple gown—someone familiar to him, if distantly, though he can’t quite remember the time or the place where they’d met.

“Commander Rutherford,” purrs a woman over his shoulder, and he spins around.

“Um. Bonjour,” he tries, and as the music and the dances resume around them, she smiles.

“Voulez-vous danser?” she inquires.

 _We did not cover this_.

“Ah,” he sputters. “Ah...um...non. Merci.”

Her smile turns sour immediately; _Ellinor was right,_ he thinks immediately. _My accent is atrocious_.

“Mais...êtes-vous sûr?”

He hasn’t the slightest idea what she’s said. “Oui?” he guesses.

“Commander!”

Face reddening, he turns to find Josephine, hands clasped behind her back as she strides purposefully toward the two of them, and he breathes a sigh of relief. He’s never been so happy to be on the receiving end of the ambassador’s _you are in trouble_ face.

“Ambassador,” he greets her, trying to hide his relief. She curtsies once, not to him but to the noblewoman.

“If I could borrow the commander, Madame Fleury,” she says, gracious as ever, as though anyone would refuse her with a smile like hers.

 _Madame_ , he thinks sourly. _She’s married_.

Madame Fleury looks between the two of them, wrinkling her brow for only a fraction of a second before smiling graciously in return. “Of course, Lady Montilyet.” She curtsies deeply, squeezes Cullen’s hand for just long enough to make him uncomfortable, and at last turns back toward the ballroom.

“Commander,” says Josephine politely. When the noblewomen is finally out of earshot, she whips around to face him. “Cullen,” she begins again, more insistent this time, her Antivan accent more present as she snaps at him. She places her hands on her hips. “I did not spend _hours_ teaching you how to dance only for you to refuse every lady here!”

 _Oh, Maker_.

“But—” he stutters, and she wags her finger at him.

“First you say no to Lady LeClaire—Ellinor’s _sister_ , if you need to be reminded, so she is hardly a partner you should refuse—and then to countless women while—”

“I needed to keep an eye on the situation in the gardens in case—”

“ _Countless women_ ,” Josephine chastises. “Do not presume I did not see you, shaking your head and mumbling _non_ in your positively frightful Orlesian! And now Madame Fleury—”

“ _Madame_ implies she’s married, does it not?” he grumbles. “Or is my Orlesian too frightful to have translated—”

“ _Cullen!_ Why did you even ask me to teach you?” she demands, crossing her arms.

He sighs. “I’m sorry, Josephine,” he mumbles, but she can only shake her head, mumbling something in disappointed Antivan. He glances out again to the balcony where Leliana and the dark-haired woman only just emerge, leaving Ellinor behind by herself. Josephine follows his gaze.

 _I wasn’t careful enough_. He can feel the heat returning to his face.

“Unless you...unless...”

“No.”

But realization dawns on her face at last, followed by surprise, and finally, absolute joy. “Oh, _Cullen_!” she exclaims, and he knows his face is crimson by now. “Go and ask her!”

He half shrugs, half shakes his head, heart pounding as he finds himself at a loss for bravery and initiative—what’s becoming common, he thinks, for matters between himself and Ellinor. “She’s had a very trying night,” he mumbles, admitting his intentions at last, though his eyes are downcast, “I doubt she’d be in the mood to—”

“Cullen.” Josephine taps her foot, looks sternly up at him. Despite the height difference, the ambassador is very intimidating when she so chooses.

_It seems the matter is no longer up for debate._

Josephine nods encouragingly, and he takes a slow step toward the balcony, with her support. And another. And another. “I am sure she will be delighted!” she assures him.

“I’m not...I’m not sure how you’re so certain,” he mumbles, taking one last glance over his shoulder before making his way beyond the double doors, out into the crisp night air where Ellinor stands alone, leaning over the stone bannister and looking out into the Orlesian countryside.

 _Maker, but she’s beautiful_.

He can see the goosebumps on her arms from the cold, the faint scrapes along her shoulder that hadn’t been there at the start of the night. _So she wasn’t unharmed_ , he notes, his heart aching at the very thought even as she’s fairly uninjured, even as the marks he sees are too small to draw blood. Her dress still falls _just so_ , crimson skirts cascading to the floor as though cloudlike, her hair still held together in pins, only a few strands out of place from where he can see.

“Ellinor,” he says softly, and she turns her head just enough to see him. She says nothing. He hopes her silence counts as permission to join her, and his heart races when he steps forward until they stand side by side for the first time since the beginning of the night.

“Cullen,” she replies. Were they indoors with the din of the all-too-quickly resumed party, he might not have ever heard her speak—her voice is so soft. Tired. And yet he could never tire of the sound of his own name from her lips.

He swallows. “Are you all right?”

“Am I all right?” she repeats, raising an eyebrow at him as she nearly laughs, exasperated.

 _Fool_.

“I only mean that—” he stammers, rubbing his neck instinctively. _I should not have come to her_ and yet it’s too late to stop now. “—I was...we were all very worried for you tonight.”

She looks down now, opening and closing her hands, stretching her fingers. “I’m sure you were,” she mutters, and he reddens further; it’s not her comment that stings him, it’s that she really believes he isn’t worried, doesn’t care.

But when she looks up at him again and meets his eyes, realization dawns on her in a swift wave. “You really were worried,” she breathes, any trace of humor gone from her face.

“I was,” he affirms with a quiet nod; he wants to say _of course_ , but it would be wrong— _there was a time I might not have been_.

She’s wordless now, mulling it over, and _Maker, she’s beautiful like this under the moonlight_ , her cheeks rosy, her gown still draped around her and giving little evidence of the night’s events.

“Is there something else…?” she questions finally, and he returns to himself, _Rutherford, you fool_ , remembering why he’s come to her at all.

“Yes,” he says, clearing his throat, cursing Josephine for convincing him to go out to the balcony in the first place. _She’s going to say no anyway_ , he thinks, and _why shouldn’t she?_ “I wondered...that is, I...” He clears his throat a second time, and she looks at him patiently, _always so patient, as of late_. He takes a deep breath, mustering his courage. “Would you like to dance?”

She only blinks, first. As though she’s heard him wrong. “You hate dancing,” she says, and he could curse his past self for ever admitting that to her.

“Y-yes,” he stutters. “I mean, no. I mean, yes, I do, but...you love it.”

Her brown eyes bore into him as she searches for something. _For lies_ , he thinks bitterly, feeling defeated already, _for jesting_ or _for humor_ or for—

“Yes.”

_Yes._

He hadn’t dared believe he might get this far but she’s said _yes_. He tries in vain to remember the proper steps Josephine had taught him for initiating a dance but it’s all a blur now, a jumbled mess of _first you will bow_ and _then she will curtsy_ and _you will need to count your steps_ but he can hardly hear the music over the beating of his heart and it doesn’t matter anyway, Ellinor’s hands have found his own and she’s pulling him, leading him, and they’re stepping back and away from the bannister and he can’t tell in the moment if it’s her hands or his that shake as they find one another, her waist, his shoulder.

 _Perhaps both_.

He tries to count the steps, _time signatures_ , Josephine had mentioned when she’d taught him, not that he’d known what it meant, but _bless Ellinor_ , she steps before him and it all falls into place and he realizes now that he’s never been so close to her. _Not like this_. Once after Haven when he’d carried her, and then again shortly after that when he’d found her in panic after a war council. _But no, never like this_ , and when they find their rhythm, find the music, he lets himself breathe, relax, step closer, step slower.

If there was ever a way for this night to end, he had not imagined it like this.

He would not exchange it for the world.

“You were excellent tonight,” he says softly. The slow rhythm of their dance, the lazy circles and the soft steps feel quiet even as they follow the music drifting outdoors from the ballroom. “The way you handled them...Celene and Gaspard and Briala. And Florianne, before…”

“Yes,” she says simply, nodding.

“Yes,” he echoes. _She knows_. “You just...you speak to them all, the nobility and everyone, in a way that just commands their attention. And you do it so simply, without a second thought. Such a thing would...terrify me, truth be told. But for you, it’s as natural as breathing.”

She doesn’t answer him for a moment, and he begins to count his steps again. _One-two-three, one-two three._

“I was terrified.”

“You were?”

She nods. “You think I’m above fear?” she asks him, in earnest, and shakes her head. “I could have failed. We could’ve been compromised. Celene could have died—I wouldn’t have cared as much as Josie, I think—” He chuckles quietly at that. “—but so could any of us. One mistake. One wrong comment. Every Inquisition life here was on my shoulders tonight, and then more, everyone is watching. Always. Somebody is always watching.”

“Well, Orlais—”

“It’s not only Orlais, Cullen,” she interrupts, her body stiffening, defensive.

 _She’s tired_.

“It’s everywhere. It’s all the time. The Game is not limited to galas and balls. It’s _everywhere_.” She takes a deep, shaking breath. “I’ve always known it. Someone is always watching. There can be no missteps, no—”

“No one is watching now,” he murmurs, and she pauses.

“Cullen.”

“No one is watching you right now,” he repeats, and it’s quiet.

And then, after a moment, he feels her shoulders relax, her fingers lose their grip around his hand. “I suppose you’re right,” she whispers, and she lets her forehead still against the breast of his jacket.

He’s glad for their closeness, and for their height difference, because this way she can’t see how red his face has turned. He only hopes the pounding in his heart—just where her cheek rested—doesn’t give him away. _Maker_ , what he wouldn’t give to lean down, tip her chin up to him, and kiss her. He’d give anything, _anything_ , to chase the cold from her pink lips, to tell her _the Game isn’t here, though_.

Truly, Josephine would scold him if she could see them now, with his arm hooked so far around her back that his hand now sat, low, on the hip opposite from where it properly belonged. He’s all but wrapped around her, and _Maker damn me_ , he can’t bring himself to care. He could hold her like this forever.

“Cullen?” she murmurs.

“Hm?”

“You’re softer.”

He breathes in sharply. “I’m sorry?” he asks, but she shakes her head.

“You’re just...you’re softer than you seem, sometimes. Did you know that?” She doesn’t move when she speaks, her voice reverberating against his jacket, sending goosebumps over his his skin as though he isn’t warm all over, flushed from the very proximity between the two of them.

“Yes, well,” he says, hoping she can’t tell the tremor in his voice. “I think maybe you bring that out in me.”

She only hums in response, letting herself lean further into him. When he steals a glance down, she has her eyes closed, and her breathing has slowed. _She’s quiet, relaxed._ If all he could offer her tonight is a few moments of peace, he could retire for the night a happy man.

They dance—or rather sway, from side to side, any prior dancing lessons long abandoned—not until the song ends but until the music comes to an end altogether, and he can see Josephine out of the corner of his eye, lingering by the balcony doors, no doubt signaling that the night is coming to a close, and regretfully, he pulls them to a stop, backs away, admires the way her cheeks are rosy, her eyes tired but at peace.

“Well,” he whispers, nodding once to Josephine, and the ambassador retreats back inside, her message delivered. “Thank you.” And Ellinor laughs—short, sweet, a burst of happiness prettier than any music he’s heard tonight.

“I should be thanking _you_ ,” she tells him when he bows slowly, grasps her hand in his own. “I know you hate dancing.”

The laughter fades from her eyes when he doesn’t return her smile, when he brings her hand before him and she realizes what he’s going to do, and now it’s her cheeks that turn red, her lips that have lost all sense of words.

“Lady Trevelyan,” he whispers but _oh, Ellinor,_ he thinks, pressing his lips once into her knuckles before releasing her hand, standing straight again, his gaze reaching hers for a final time before they part.

_How could I hate dancing when it means I could hold you like this?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello all! i hope you enjoyed this chapter--it's one of the ones i've actually had written since nearly the beginning (parts of it, anyway), and a part i've obviously been looking forward to for quite some time. it's also a part that i think is a good pausing moment, so i wanted to let you all know that i will be taking one week off from updating this story in order to outline the next segments, collect my thoughts, and give my brain some rest and time to recharge. writing chapters for AWA weekly is a joy for me, but there are times when stress, pressure, and mental health get in the way, so this week off will give me an opportunity to refocus and take care of myself before continuing. in the meantime, you can follow my [blog](https://bitchesofostwick.tumblr.com/) or my [twitter](https://twitter.com/bitchesofostwck) for updates on this plot or ellinor's [modern au adventures](https://bitchesofostwick.tumblr.com/post/184191797798/day-age-masterpost-a-dragon-age-college-au) if you like! otherwise, i will see you all again on may 14!


	25. Letting Go

The sunlight leaks through the windows of her Winter Palace bedroom like water in an old boat but if she keeps her eyes closed, she can still feel his lips on her hand. The way his jacket was warm against her cheek, the way the tassels of his pauldrons were smooth under her fingers when she reached her hand up to his shoulder and the warmth of his skin when her thumb brushed against his neck, the way his arms had wrapped around her waist. The way he’d placed a hand between her shoulders to hold her close to him.

She’s not a praying woman, but _Maker, tell me that was real._

Any divine confirmation she might have searched for is interrupted, however, by the bedroom door flying open, hitting the wall so hard she’s shocked the doorknob doesn’t shatter, rebounding and nearly hitting the door-slamming culprit in the face.

“Good metaphor for last night, yeah?” Sera mutters, dodging the door just in time.

Ellinor can only groan in response. When she cracks an eye open, Sera’s dragging her feet across the room, dressed in rumpled, ill-fitting striped silk pajamas. ‘Where’d you get those?” she mumbles into her pillow, fully aware that Sera’s unlikely to have heard her at all.

“Who cares?” She’s proven wrong when Sera flops onto the too-soft mattress beside her and lets out an exaggerated sigh. “Shitty excuse for a party, right?” she asks, stretching and kicking her legs out before her until the cuffs of her pajama pants finally shift off her feet and around her ankles.

She doesn’t bother answering. Instead, she throws the duvet over her face, hiding her grin.

“I mean,” Sera mutters, “Even the grand duchess going batshit wasn’t fun! I’ve had more fun in Val Royeaux throwing snowballs at your sister from the upper city than I had the whole time we were here. Right? Just wasn’t fun. And the _food_! All dished out on tiny plates the size of ants! Who’s supposed to get full on that? Bit of a joke, if you ask me. I’m starved.”

Truthfully, she’d rather lie in bed and dream again.

“Are you even listening, Ellie?” Sera asks, jabbing her finger into her side. It hurts, even with the overstuffed duvet as a barrier. It’s all she can do to swat back from beneath the covers and press her nose back into the mattress, holding on to any last strings of the night before even as Sera begins to tug at the blankets.

“What time is it?” she groans.

“Ass crack of dawn,” Sera replies, finally succeeding in yanking the duvet down below Ellinor’s face. She begins to pull at different pieces of her hair now, using her fingers for a comb.

_She’s nimble when she likes._

“Anyway,” the elf continues, twisting her hair back and forth, taking advantage of her face-down position to style as she pleases. “Sooner we eat, sooner we leave. Sooner we leave, sooner we get the fuck out of this boring place.” A few more twists and knots later—Ellinor’s not sure where she found the pins, but she feels them poke into her scalp once or twice before Sera can settle them—and she sits back. “Good as Josephine’s,” she says with a shrug.

Ellinor sits up begrudgingly, looking across the opulent bedroom to the glass opposite her bed. “It’s good for someone who cuts her own bangs without a mirror,” she agrees.

Sera sticks her tongue out. “I’m never trying to look pretty, Ellie,” she snarks. “But I know you are.”

They’re to meet in Josephine’s quarters for breakfast, and she and Sera are the last to to make their way down the hall—Ellinor in the skirts Josephine had packed for her, Sera still in her stolen pajamas. It’s early, certainly, but never too early for Josephine, and so they are, unsurprisingly, the last two to arrive.

As soon as the door to Josephine’s room opens, Sera lets out a loud snort, a near-manic cackle she only half attempts to hide behind her hand.

“Oh _tits_ , Cully,” she giggles, “you look like one of the Empress’s little dogs!”

Cullen looks up from the table only briefly—shy eyes meeting Ellinor’s but lowered instantly at Sera’s continuous laughter, face red as the jacket he’d worn last night and hair as Ellinor had never seen it before: curled freely, springing at will from every angle atop his head, soft, untamed.

She _grins_.

“Good morning,” she says softly, taking the seat beside him and ignoring Sera, who at this point is clutching her stomach and wheezing at the opposite side of the table. “Your hair—”

“I forgot to bring—”

“—looks lovely,” she says, grinning, _staring_ if only so that he might look up to meet her eyes; she’s _serious_ , she _means it_ , she’s blushing herself not from embarrassment but from shyness, from sincerity.

“Oh,” is all he can manage, nearly choking on his toast. He quickly reaches for his coffee, cup clinking in its saucer before he can bring it to his lips with nervous fingers, swallowing back the hot liquid and looking back up at her finally.

She still smiles.

“Yours is very nice as well,” he says, clearing his throat, and she beams down into the plate in front of her. She’s about to answer when Josephine _tuts_ at them instead.

“Are you quite finished, Sera?” she asks as the elf catches her breath. “And—Dorian! Do not smirk like that. We were successful in our mission last night, but we are not backat at Skyhold just yet.”

“Right, so can we get a move on, then?”

Josephine frowns again at Sera, but Cassandra raises a quick eyebrow in agreement before returning quietly to her breakfast.

“Um, Josephine,” Cullen pipes up, looking away from Ellinor—if only for a moment. She blushes. “My units have begun moving out of the palace already. We’ve withdrawn all but my last two lieutenants, who will travel with us.”

“And my agents are returning to their posts as well,” Leliana adds, and Cullen looks back to Ellinor, offering a shy smile.

Josephine sighs. “My runners will be ready to leave, once the business with Lady Brouillard has been settled. It would seem that she came down with hives and nausea before the evening was over and apparently believes the Inquisition is to blame.”

“What a shame,” says Leliana monotonously.

Dorian raises an eyebrow. “Aren’t those symptoms of rashvine poisoning?” he asks, looking pointedly at Sera, who crosses her arms behind her head.

“Wouldn’t know. Never had rashvine poisoning.”

“Sera—”

“Cullen,” Cassandra asks, furrowing her brow. “Isn’t Lady Brouillard one of the women who was bothering you last—”

“No!” Cullen replies, turning red. “I don’t—perhaps—I mean, I never asked any of their names, I…”

“Cullen…”

“ _Sera_ ,” Dorian says with a devious smile.

“Ellinor!” admonishes Josephine.

_She knows._

She throws her hands up. “What are you looking at _me_ for?” she huffs, pushing her chair out as she stands., ignoring Cullens quizzical look when she does. “Anyway,” she continues, “it sounds like we’re about ready to head out. I’m to meet Lyssa before we leave. I won’t be long.”

At first, only Sera’s reaction is significant; the elf wrinkles her nose in the manner Ellinor’s become accustomed to seeing any time her sister’s name is mentioned. Josephine only nods tiredly, Leliana and Cassandra remain expressionless. Cullen continues chewing his toast.

Finally, Dorian raises his eyebrows. “That was your _sister_ you were speaking with last night?” he asks her, rubbing his thumb and forefinger over his mustache. Ellinor nods. “Hm. Do her a favor and suggest a paler shade of pink for next gala’s dress.” To Josephine’s chagrin, the joke earns him a barking laugh and a high-five from Sera.

“Ellinor!” the ambassador calls after her when she’s nearly out the door. She turns back to see not only Josephine’s weary look but also Cullen’s questioning eyes; she can’t help but flash him a quick smile. “Do be quick,” Josephine finishes, catching her grin and narrowing her eyes at him.

The morning sky is bright when she makes her way outside of the palace in search of her sister.

_Ellie, I’d like to speak again, before you go_.

Lyssa’s words from the previous night ring in her mind as she descends the sun-soaked marble steps toward the lower gardens, one at a time, the flat of her boots making no sound as she moves lithely and with purpose. It’s a quiet morning anyway, lacking any of the muffled music and clinking glasses and whispers that had sounded the night before. Instead only the dripping fountains, the occasional birdsong interrupt the hour too early yet for yesterday’s revelers to emerge from their beds. She peers by each hedge and flower bed as she walks, searching, and _Josephine will hardly be happy if we can’t keep to our schedule on my account_ and—

“Ellie.”

She waits alone on a stone bench dressed in a warm blue that matches the cloudless sky above them, ankles crossed and tucked to the side, lace-gloved hands folded in her lap. _Mother would be proud of her_ ; she always had been, ladylike and poised and elegant not unlike Ellinor but with a temperament more akin to a toothless pup than anything else.

“Lyssa.”

Lyssa’s movements are slow and calculated, as one might act in order not to alarm a hostile wild animal, and she carefully raises one hand to her forehead to shade her eyes from the sun. “Will you sit?” she asks, patting the space on the bench beside.

“I don’t have much time to speak,” Ellinor replies stiffly, not budging from where she stands. “We’re to leave for Skyhold very shortly. I’m probably holding up our party as I say this, so—”

“I don’t think Ser Rutherford would dare leave without you,” Lyssa says, trying and failing to hold back a smirk in spite of Ellinor’s tone toward her—one Ellinor can only return with a frown.

“Lyssa—”

“He’s very fond of you! We spoke, last night. After you ran off to...do your business.”

She scrunches up her nose. “Honestly, Lyssa, you make it sound like I left to go take a piss.”

“To take a—” she stutters, scandalized. “Ellie, you really should spend less time with that elf girl, she’s—”

“She’s my friend,” Ellinor interrupts, “and I can assure you that whatever comes out of my mouth is said of my own volition. I doubt many among your crowd could say the same.”

Lyssa shakes her head, looking downward now to the cobblestone pathway before her. “Of course,” she says quietly. “Anyway, I only meant...your commander—”

“Is my _colleague_ ,” she insists, in spite of her thoughts returning to their breakfast before, and the way her heartbeat raced when he blushed at the very sight of her.

“He also seems like a good man.”

_He is an_ excellent _man_ , she thinks. “He commands my armies,” she says instead.

“And your attention.”

Her jaw drops at Lyssa’s words and she gapes, flounders, face turning hot under the morning sun.

“I know you danced with him last night,” she continues. “I didn’t mean to—I’d left my gloves behind in the ballroom and when I returned for them, I saw that—”

“That was private,” she replies hotly.

“It wouldn’t be, if you didn’t care for him,” Lyssa counters. “Besides, Ellie, you didn’t even dance with him at the Wiscotte’s gala! Something’s changed since then. I can tell.”

She waves her hands defensively. “I didn’t dance with him at the gala because he said _no_ when I asked.”

“So you’d _wanted_ to!”

“I—” Ellinor stammers. “What? No! And—did you really ask me to come find you this morning just so that you could accuse and speculate about the company I keep? Because I’ve had enough of it.” She turns sharply on her heels, boots scraping against the stonework underfoot before she moves to leave her sister behind.

_And now she’ll plead._

“Ellie, wait!”

_Of course._

She doesn’t turn around.

“If you don’t have anything more to say, then—”

“Let Avery come to Val Royeaux.”

_Avery_. Her breath catches in her throat. Slowly, carefully, fingers shaking as she tucks them into fists, she turns around.

“I know you want to say no,” Lyssa rushes, rising from her seat, clasping her hands together. “But Ellie, please. If he wants to leave Skyhold, then why not let him go somewhere you know you can find him? Mathieu and I have room, he could stay as long as he’d like, and—”

“And his lover, too?”

“And—” Lyssa swallows. “I’m sorry?”

“He travels with a Ferelden girl,” Ellinor clarifies. “Her name is Bridget. They’re involved. Romantically.”

Lyssa bites her lip, furrows her brow. “Yes,” she says with certainty. “Yes, of course. She would be welcome too. Ellie—”

“And what about Bryony?” she snaps, putting her hands on her hips. “Suppose she comes and shows up from wherever she’s disappeared to? Will you really not give him up, if she asks? Or would you let her drag him away like you—”

“Ellinor!”

For once it’s _Lyssa_ who interrupts _her_ , hands balled into fists and voice strong, clear, without any pleading or qualms. She closes her eyes and her shoulders rise and fall, tightening the blue fabric of her sleeves as she breathes deeply and exhales.

“Ellie,” she says, softer now. “He’s my brother too. And no matter how many times you convince yourself that you’re the only one who cares about him, and that you’re the only one who will champion his freedom and safety, you’re wrong.” She looks back at her, eyes soft even as Ellinor looks back expressionless, hands still on her hips. “Let me make this right, this time. Won’t you?”

She opens her mouth to answer, finds no words, no voice, closes it again. _But Avery_ , she thinks, and then _I can’t keep him_ and _I won’t be what the Circle was to him_.

“Ellie.”

“I’ll ask him,” she chokes. “But if he doesn’t want—I can’t make—”

“He doesn’t have to!” Lyssa promises, rushing forward and taking her hands in hers. The lace of her gloves is scratchy against Ellinor’s palms, her hands delicate and nimble as her own as she squeezes them once. “But, if he wants to...he’s welcome. For as long as he likes. And so are you! Ellie, it’s been ages since you’ve come to visit— _properly_ visit, I mean, before the Inquisition—and it would be so nice, wouldn’t it? I don’t see family much.”

“I’m not sure if I’ll have time,” she mumbles to Lyssa, catches herself when her sister’s smile falters. “But...yes. Maybe. I—I’ll ask him, okay?”

Lyssa cracks a smile once more—a hopeful one, bright under the morning sun—before leaning in to kiss her once on the cheek. “Thank you, Ellie,” she says softly. “Will you write me? Once you’ve asked?”

She can only nod.

“I won’t keep you any longer, then. But—Ellie, I’m glad we could talk.”

Ellinor swallows. “So am I, Lyssa.”

* * *

_Mia,_

_I’m told the post runs faster from this part of Orlais, so I’m writing from here. All is well. Please don’t worry about me._

_~~With love, Cul~~ _

_How are all of you?_

_With love, Cullen_

* * *

The final stretch of their journey back to Skyhold is more grueling than any segment before—slowed by snow, a broken carriage wheel that seemed to take ages to repair, a bear attack that miraculously no one was injured from but nearly everyone was exhausted after finishing. They’re nearly a full day late when the party finally crosses the iced stone bridge from one end of the mountain chasm to the great castle, the at-last clear evening sky giving way to the moon and lighting their way inside. Only the night guard waits at the gates to greet them; the grounds are quiet and any livelihood within the keep seems to have funneled into the tavern already.

“Ellinor,” Cullen says softly, pulling his horse up alongside hers as soon as they’ve crossed into the yard. They hadn’t had the chance to speak much on the ride home—not with her leading the company and him riding guard alongside the carriages. He slides off his horse with practiced ease and takes hers by the reins, grinning up at her as he reaches up.

She accepts his outstretched hand without hesitation, climbs off of her courser, lands on her feet light and easy as the soft smile on her face when she looks back up at him.

“She knows how to dismount her own horse, ya absolute tit,” Sera mutters under her breath.

If he hears her, he doesn’t show it. “Glad to be back?” he asks Ellinor, leading both of their horses back to the stables as she walks alongside him.

_Glad to be away from everything_ , she thinks. _Glad to be away from watchful eyes and sinister people_.

“Yes,” she nods. “And you?”

“Satisfied at our success,” he says with a combination of disdain and honesty that brings a smirk to her lips. “Happy to be away from the aristocracy of Orlais.” Now she laughs out loud, and even he allows himself a smile before his eyes soften and he looks at her in earnest. “And relieved that we’ve returned safely. All of us.”

When they reach the stables, Dennet accepts the horses with little more than a _you’ve returned_ , and Cullen chuckles at what he calls the man’s _Ferelden courtesies_ when they’ve left the horses behind and exited back into the cool, calm night.

She means to ask him if he has any plans for supper when they’re interrupted by a slow round of applause from the grass along the stable courtyard.

“At last, the prestigious party returns from the show.”

They turns to find Varric, nodding his approval from where he sits with his back against the stone wall of the well, parchment in his lap and a quill in his hand.

“How kind of you to come and greet us,” she says, raising her eyebrows with a suspicion betrayed by the smile on her face—one Cullen weakly attempts to match.

“I’ll bid you goodnight, then,” he says to her, nodding at Varric, and her smile disappears.

“But—”

“I’ll see you in the morning, Ellinor,” he says, kindly. “Whenever you like. But you’ve business to attend to now, and I imagine I have plenty waiting for me as well.”

She only nods, and he bows shortly to her, and then to the dwarf, before parting ways.

“What brings you out here at this hour, Varric?” she sighs, trying to hide her disappointment. “Shouldn’t you be in the tavern spinning tales of the Bull’s drinking exploits? Or something?”

“Why spin a tale when I can write the tale that’s spun itself?” he counters, nodding at Cullen’s retreating figure. She bites her lip, but the tease on his face sobers almost as quickly as it had appeared. “Anyway, Swift,” he sighs. “I wanted to catch you when you got in. Got a bit of a story for you.”

* * *

_Varric_

_He’s in fucking Crestwood. Round up Andraste’s bitch. It’s go time._

_Hawke_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> glad to be back with this chapter! thank you to everyone who wished me kind wishes during my week off. i'm excited for the coming chapters and so ready to share them all with you!


	26. Treading Lightly

She’d called her _the Champion_.

And no matter how many times she said it, Varric had always corrected her.

_Just Hawke_.

She’d known from experience that “brief” and “tame” were hardly terms she should associate with Varric’s stories and yet she still couldn’t quite believe his words even as he explained to her soberly, genuinely, his previous encounter with Corypheus—one that he’d made no previous mention of ( _for privacy reasons, you have to understand, Swift_ )—and the Champion’s ( _Hawke’s_ ) travels after Kirkwall and the state of the Grey Wardens ( _Hawke probably knows more than Hero, even_ ) and the fact that she was on her way _here_ , to _Skyhold_ , traveling as they spoke. And on top of it all, the story was littered with mentions of someone called “Broody” who seemed to be either an enemy or a friend of Hawke’s—she couldn’t tell—only that _Broody’s gotta be pissed with her, really_ and _wouldn’t be surprised if Broody showed up here not long after her_ and _Andraste’s tits, imagine Broody meeting Sparkler._

And bewildered though she was, there was no fiction to Varric’s words. He knew of Corypheus. He’d _seen_ him, _fought_ him, alongside Aurelia Hawke who was alive, well, in contact with Varric, and on her way to Skyhold in spite of every previous claim he’d made to the contrary.

_Whatever happens, we can’t tell Seeker and Curly that Hawke’s coming_ he’d said to her to that point, followed in quick succession by _wait_ and _no_ and _you’re going to tell Curly, aren’t you?_ and without even giving her a second’s window to respond, _fine, you tell Curly_ and then _he’s gonna lose his shit_ and finally, _but we still can’t tell Seeker_.

It was simultaneously unbelievable and absolutely unsurprising to her that something of such magnitude and improbability could happen to the Inquisition.

They’d spoken late into the night—late enough that when they’d finally climbed the stairs back into the main keep, Vivienne’s candles had been blown out overhead, and only the main braziers were lit, and even as she turned back once, briefly, to glance towards Cullen’s tower, the windows were dark, any lights extinguished. She’d turned back around quickly after, but not quickly enough for Varric, who chuckled, muttered _already spun_ once more to her before grunting and throwing a few logs onto the barely living coals in his fireplace and waving her off for the evening with a short, _night, Swift_.

And when she awakens the next morning and returns to the great hall for breakfast and coffee, the dwarf says little more than _morning, Swift_ with a warning glint in his eyes but she has plenty to do without worrying about Hawke and so she passes him by, takes her toast dry and her coffee black and sits beside Sera who nurses a mug of cider alongside a chocolate pastry.

It’s midmorning when she finally meets Avery and even from where she crosses the courtyard to his spot in the sun-warmed grass, watching Bridget train with the Inquisition’s mages, there’s a look on his face—one she knows well, one she wore herself for fourteen years in Ostwick.

_He’s ready to leave_.

“You returned late last night,” he comments when she sits beside him, and she does her best to smirk back.

“Why? Were you up waiting for me?” He rolls his eyes. “Did I miss curfew? Please don’t tell Mother and—”

“Ell!”

She grins at him, and he smiles back if only for a fleeting moment.

“How was it, anyway?” he asks.

“Nice.”

“Nice?”

She shrugs. The yard is warm, as always, in spite of the surrounding snow-capped mountains, and if she closes her eyes she can hear the birds. The _swishes_ and _flashes_ of spells, the distant clanking of shield drills she’d become accustomed to. She sighs.

“The assassination plot was real. Both the empress’ cousin and her elven former lover had motive. And then her other cousin ended up being a Venatori agent. So I had to kill her. And as much as I despise her, Celene still emerged victorious.”

She flicks her gaze over to him briefly to find him gaping. She shrugs again.

“If that’s your idea of ‘nice,’” he snorts, “you really _have_ been spending too much time with Commander Cullen.”

_And if I have?_

“So that’s really all?” Avery continues, stretching his arms over his head. “Nothing else noteworthy?”

“Not really,” she says dully. If she tilts her head the right way, one of the clouds overhead looks like a slice of cake. “Lyssa was there.”

_Or maybe it’s just a triangle_ , she thinks, if she squints. When she looks back at Avery, he’s no longer smiling, nor laughing.

Her heart sinks like a rock thrown into a pond.

“She wants you to go live with her in Val Royeaux,” she manages, looking back to the sky, blinking _once_ , _twice_ , until the clouds take no more shapes and blur against the sky like cotton in a sea of blue. She swallows. “And I think you should go.”

The birds and the spells and the shield-clashing resume.

“And Bridget?” he asks finally.

“Bridget too.”

He takes a deep breath. “And what would we do in Val Royeaux?” he asks her.

“I don’t—”

“Wait?”

“No—”

“Hide? And until what? Until some templars or Chantry officials find us and then—”

“Avery!” she pleads, _begs_ , looking at him finally as though through a blurred glass of tears and his face falls.

“Ell…”

“Go there,” she chokes. “Please. It’s a big city. Lyssa and her husband are well known there, they have friends in high places, in _all_ places. You’d be safe. And you could even travel close to the city if you wanted. But you can’t...please. Please. Don’t go where I can’t find you. I’ve already...I...I can’t lose you again. Please, Avery.”

“Ell,” he says again, but this time he opens his arms for her and she lets him hug her, presses her nose into his robes and breathes him in—a scent becoming familiar to her now, wool and spices and something like herself, something like home.

“I spent half my life hoping I could save you from having to run,” she whispers.

He nods.

And he breathes in.

And he sighs.

“Does her husband know?” he asks finally, and she pulls away.

“Mathieu?” she asks, but he wouldn’t know. _In the Circle before Lyssa even married._ “Yes,” she says, nodding. “Yes, he—he doesn't mind. Lyssa already told him. She wants—I mean, she’s hoping you both would go. But—”

“We could go,” he says quietly. Thoughtfully. “I mean—yes. We can go.”

“You will?”

He nods.

“But—”

“You’re right, Ell,” he sighs. “I don’t want to run anymore. And...I don’t want to lose you again, either. And Val Royeaux isn’t that far.”

“I’d only be just east in the mountains,” she says with a small smile, wiping her eyes with her sleeve.

“Just east.”

“Not far.”

“And in good hands.”

“In good— _Avery_!”

He grins, any melancholy or sentimentality vanished from his eyes. “Leliana told me you danced with him.”

“ _Leliana_?” she repeats incredulously. “She has no business—”

“Everything’s her business, Ell, I’ve known her a fraction of the time you have and I can tell you that. Anyway, _you_ have no business getting so defensive. I thought you said the ball was ‘nice,’ after all.”

“It _was_ nice,” she counters, frowning, and Avery raises his eyebrows, waiting for the _but_. Fourteen years apart and still he knows her so well, and he’s still so patient, and he looks at her intently, lets her finds her words, waits.

“But,” she concedes, and he tilts his head, “it was a dance.”

“She said you were the only woman he danced with all night.”

She wrinkles her nose. “Yes, well, he hates dancing.”

“You’re only furthering my point.”

“But that’s not what…” She runs her hair over her braid, exasperated. “I just don’t…that’s not the _point_ , I mean. I just...I can’t tell what he _wants_.”

“What he wants?” Avery repeats, a layer of amusement doing little to hide his unimpressed tone.

“Ell, I don’t know the man well, but—”

“You weren’t here before.”

_You don’t know him_.

“I’m here now.”

_You didn’t know him._

“You didn’t see—”

“You’re afraid,” he says simply. “Have you even spoken with him, since you both returned?”

She thinks back on her conversation with Varric, on Hawke and Crestwood and the Wardens and _oh but there’s so much to tell Cullen_ and even then, ultimately, she evades the question. “Avery,” she says, lips pressed in a straight line, “I don’t _fear_ him.”

He opens his mouth, a hundred words waiting on his tongue, _I can tell_ , and still after seconds of moving his lips inaudibly, he sighs, shakes his head. “Oh, Ell.”

* * *

_OFFICIAL CORRESPONDENCE OF THE INQUISITION_

_Lyssa,_

_Avery and Bridget will travel to Val Royeaux in a few days’ time. They will be accompanied by myself and a trusted selection of Inquisition guards. Avery is now a protected agent of the Inquisition, so should I determine a need for it, the guards will remain at your homestead until deemed unnecessary._

_This information is not to be extended beyond you and Mathieu._

_I will see you soon._

_E. Trevelyan_

* * *

_I’ll see you in the morning, Ellinor_ , Cullen had said to her the night before, with a soft smile and softer eyes that made her heart weak and her face flush, and yet the entire day has come and gone and she’s seen no part of him, not in the training yard where Cassandra had slashed a dummy to near ruin with her sword that morning—no doubt a direct response to their time spent in Halamshiral—-nor in the library when she’d checked in on Dorian after lunch. It’s not until she intercepts one of his aides on the battlements and inquires after him that she learns he’s yet to leave his office that day, having extended Lieutenant Forrester’s lead on drills and training for an additional day after their return.

“He said he had reports to catch up on, Your Worship,” the aide clarifies. “He asked not—”

“—not to be disturbed,” Ellinor finishes. “Very well, private. I’ll respect his wishes.”

She dismisses the private with a quick salute and waits until she’s passed her by before making a beeline for Cullen’s tower.

It’s past dinner when she climbs the last stairs before his door and she wonders for a moment if he’s eaten yet. _You’ve business to attend to_ , he’d said to her, _and I imagine I do as well_ and yet even among her busy day she’s made time to sit for toast with Sera, for sandwiches with Avery and Bridget, and for stew in the Herald’s Rest in the evening. But then, it’s _Cullen_. She presumes the answer is no.

She doesn’t have to guess when she knocks on the door once, hears only a short grunt from the inside, and enters to find weak lighting and an even weaker inhabitant bent over his desk, pouring over books and letters and papers, three meals worth of trays sitting untouched and forgotten on the table behind him.

“Cullen?” she ventures, cautiously, like she’s never been inside his office before, like she’s never seen him ill and weak and pushing himself through mountains of work just to distract him from it all. “Cullen, I wanted to talk to you about—”

“Ellinor,” he says, scrambling to sit up straight at her presence, wincing with the pain when he does. “I didn’t realize you—well, that’s not...I mean, it’s good to see you. I’m...I’m glad you...glad to see you.”

She shakes her head, gives him a somber smile, searches for a place to sit. Dust clings to a likely never-used chair by his bookshelf _but it will do_. “One of your privates insisted you weren’t to be disturbed,” she says, brushing the dust off quickly, keeping her voice low and her teasing light.

“And I’m not,” he says as she drags the chair across the room to sit with him. “You’re not disturbing me.”

The candlelight flickers low at his desk when she sits beside him. It’s enough of a light to show the thin sheen of sweat upon his face, the way his eyes seem reddened, exhausted. Her heart hurts.

_Cullen_.

He flinches the first time she reaches out to him and she pauses, eyes searching his for permission. When she tries again, he lets her, and she places a cool hand upon his cheek, holding her breath as she does. He’s hot—feverish, almost.

“You should have told me you were unwell,” she says softly.

“I’ve been very busy,” he dismisses her, turning his face away back to his work. “Lots to do since we were gone, and I’m—I’m fine, really, it’s no—”

“Cullen.”

Just _Cullen_ , just once, and he stops, silent. She rises from her chair and crosses behind his chair, behind him. A lot of the food from the day is unappetizing now—a fried egg from breakfast, what looks to be ham from lunch. But she salvages what she can from the plates—two slices of bread, grapes, an apple, collects it on one tray and places it on his desk before disappearing behind him again to pour clean water from his pitcher into a shallow bowl.

“Can you take off your armor?”

He nearly chokes. “Can I—I’m sorry?”

“It’s not doing you any good,” she declares. “I can help you, if you need it.” Even in the faint light she can see his ears turn pink, and she almost smiles.

“I’m perfectly capable of…” he mumbles, gripping the arms of his chair and grimacing.

She shakes her head. “You don’t have to lie.”

He says nothing to that.

Between the two of them, it takes only a few moments to pull the thick fur surcoat from his shoulders and the heavy silverite cuirass over his head. The vambraces he manages himself, and she takes the opportunity to search the office for a clean cloth. When she returns to him, he’s flushed, vulnerable, apprehensive but altogether less weighed down.

“Eat,” she says quietly, dipping the cloth into the cool water and wringing it out in turn. Only after he reluctantly takes a grape does she sit back against the desk, facing him, leaning forward just so. “Can I?” she asks.

“What are you…” he starts, chewing and swallowing. “Why?”

“It’ll bring the fever down.”

_It’s not what he was asking._ She leans forward, and sure enough, he stops her. “Ellinor,” he murmurs—enough to send shivers over her skin. “Why?”

_Don’t you know?_ she wants to ask.

But she says nothing. Gently, with caution, she presses the cool cloth to his forehead, feeling the heat of his skin beneath her thumb and the curls falling over his forehead upon her fingers, and he sighs.

“I never wanted to worry you,” he says finally, taking a piece of bread at her nudging.

“And why not?”

He frowns. “Please, Ellinor,” he says, insistent this time though the gentleness in his gaze remains when he looks at her again. “You’ve seen me in worse states.”

She only gives him a sorry smile before returning the cloth to the water, wringing it, repeating.

“I imagine that doesn’t ease your concern,” he gathers.

“It doesn’t.”

When she reaches out again, he stops her, grasps her wrist gently before she can apply the cloth again. “I wrote to my sister, you know,” he says quietly.

“Today?”

He shakes his head. “While we were in Halamshiral. It’s...it was because of you, really. Seeing you speak with Lyssa, even when I know...well…”

“It’s no secret that I have little patience for her,” she says quietly.

“Yes, well, what I mean to say is that...she cares about you. Surely you must recognize that.”

She pauses, letting the water drip from the cloth down her wrist, sending goosebumps over her arm, and finally back into the basin, creating ripples that blur his reflection when she looks down. “I haven’t always,” she says slowly, “but yes.”

“But you speak. Between her letters to you and your visits to Orlais, you keep in contact. And that relationship has...improved...”

_He treads lightly_ , she notes. “It has.”

“And I thought that...that perhaps it may do them well. To hear from me, I mean. However difficult. I care for them, and—and though I’m not sure I can find the words to explain so _much_ , I still hope…”

“That’s wonderful, Cullen,” she says, smiling encouragingly, _genuinely_. “They’ll be so glad to hear from you.”

“Yes, well,” he says, blushing, “it really is all thanks to you. And Lyssa, I suppose.”

She smiles wryly. “I’ll be sure to tell her she’s inspired you when I bring Avery to Val Royeaux.”

She pushes the plate of food to him again, and he takes another bite of bread. “He’s going, then?”

“Better there than...Nevarra, or Antiva, or Maker-knows-where,” she mutters. “At least in Val Royeaux he’ll be safe and closeby.”

“And our line of contact between here and the city is quick,” he agrees, but his lips press in a straight line and his eyes darken. “I’m sorry we couldn’t keep him closer to you,” he whispers.

“But what could I do?” she asks him, shrugging her shoulders. “I couldn’t keep him here if he wishes to go elsewhere. We can’t do what the Chantry did to him.”

“No,” he says, his voice quiet, distant. “I suppose we can’t.”

She drops the cloth back into the bowl, looking over him thoughtfully. “You should have some of the tea I made you,” she advises, pushing the bowl toward him too so that he can continue. “And then I hope you’ll go to bed. Reports can wait until morning. You need rest.” She stretches her arms tiredly, stacking some of the loose papers at his desk before looking at him once more.

“But...when you got here...I mean, did you have something to tell me?” he asks, straightening the rest of his reports with unsteady hands, stacking them together, pushing them aside so that he can look upon her fully, undistracted.

_Hawke._

_Not tonight_.

She shakes her head, smiles weakly. “Nothing. Or at least, it can wait.” If she’d blinked, she might have missed the flicker of a frown pass over his lips, but he nods once, quickly, and clears his throat. “Did…” she says slowly. “Well, did _you_ have anything to tell _me_?”

When he laughs, it’s short, brief, hiding the pain in his eyes and the unreadable expression from his face. “No,” he echoes. “It can wait.”

_Oh, Cullen_.

She nods.

“Goodnight, then,” she says with a quiet smile, turning, crossing the room to retire for the night and—

“Ellinor!”

With difficulty, he pulls himself from his chair and crosses the room to meet her, and her throat tightens as she shakes her head like it’s not already to late, like he hasn’t already grimaced through the pain of standing to bid her farewell.

“Don’t get up on my account,” she says softly, with a sense of pity in her voice she hopes he can’t detect.

“Already have,” he declares, stopping only when she stands between him and the heavy oak door behind her and when he reaches for the handle, his fingers brush her arm, sending goosebumps over her skin that the cool night air does little to suppress when he pulls the door open.

_He’s paler in the moonlight_ , she thinks, the redness of fever giving way to the cold afterward, the sweating and the tremors, but for now she can still feel the warmth of his body across from her where he stands without his armor, without his surcoat, with only himself.

“I only wanted to say,” he murmurs, swallowing, “thank you. For...talking with me, tonight. And,” he licks his lips quickly, nervously. “Goodnight.”

If she tilts her head just right, she could kiss him.

_I could kiss him_.

She gives him a soft smile instead, looks down to the stonework floor beneath them where the toes of her soft leather boots nearly meet his.

“Goodnight, Cullen.”


	27. The Lion's Den

_He’s unwell still._

She can see it in the way he keeps his hands in fists at his sides until he’s required to move a piece across the large map on the war table before them—only then is he, for the briefest of moments, unable to hide the tremors in his fingers. It’s in the way his skin is pale, his eyes tired, his face unshaven, and she wonders if he’d gotten any sleep the night before after she’d urged him to go to bed and bid him goodnight. It’s in the way he stands opposite from her at the war table where in recent weeks he’s come to stand beside her, but today the sun shines too brightly and he’d shielded it from his eyes when he’d first walked in, moving past her to stand with his back to the light, casting a large shadow over the room in spite of the way he bows his head in pain, the way his posture seems diminished, a shell of his usual self.

She sees it in the way he only nods passively to matters that would otherwise draw annoyance or opposition from him. She thinks surely he will object when Josephine announces that they’re to spend Inquisition funds on a lavish gift for the young prince of the Anderfels—only a toddler—in hopes of returned loyalty; normally he might argue against such frivolous spending but today he only makes a small mumble of affirmation, _yes, very well_. When Leliana announces that she’s sending a spy to Denerim to assist King Alistair in continued run-ins with the Venatori, she’s certain Cullen will make a stand for a larger showing of forces and support; instead, he only murmurs _yes, all right_. Even when the subject of Florianne’s remains arises and she halfheartedly teases _set the grand duchess’ head on a pike so that visiting Orlesian nobility will know what happens to those who oppose the Inquisition_ , he can offer only a flicker of a humorless smile made more out of courtesy than anything else.

 _He’s unwell_ , and the news she’s yet to share will hardly improve his mood.

 _But we’re running out of time_.

“If that’s all on the agenda,” Ellinor says when Josephine has finished giving her treasury report. She speaks softly, mindful of the way he winces at every voice, every noise. “I’ve a couple more...time-sensitive matters to discuss.”

He doesn’t look up.

 _He will_.

“Yes, of course,” Josephine says, and Leliana nods. Cullen only stands still, gripping the edge of the table, his gloves tight around his knuckles.

She straightens, _shoulders back_ , breathes in the musty, sun-warmed air of the room before continuing. “First, I’m to leave tomorrow for Val Royeaux, escorting Avery and Bridget to my sister’s home in the city. The visit will not be any longer than is necessary, and Vivienne will accompany—”

“Will you not take anyone else?”

It’s the first time Cullen has said anything more than barely audible words of agreement through the entire meeting. His voice is short, a little pained, but she is more patient than she once was and she keeps her pitch calm, her words soft.

“With Avery and Bridget both being apostates, we’re looking to keep a low profile,” she explains, and Leliana raises an approving brow. “And Vivienne commands a great deal of respect in Val Royeaux. No one will question the purpose of our visit if she and I lead the company.” Now it’s Josephine’s turn to nod in agreement, leaving Cullen alone in his terse stance, his straight face. “Cullen, we’d like to leave a small unit of your soldiers at Lyssa’s home, at least for a short period of time. No more than four, I think—just for Avery and Bridget’s safety.”

“That’s fine,” he says, voice strained and suggesting the opposite. “But on your return, it will only be yourself and Vivienne.”

“Val Royeaux isn’t far—”

“It’s not _close_ —” he interrupts her, stopping himself short nearly as soon as the words leave his mouth. He lowers his eyes immediately, a faint shade of pink surfacing on his otherwise pale cheeks—a flush not unlike the heat growing on her own face.

“Cullen,” she says, bothered, questioning, willing her voice not to sound wounded. She tightens her lips into a straight line. “If you’re questioning the capability between Vivienne and myself—”

“That’s not—” he starts, squeezing his eyes shut at his own raised voice before taking a deep breath, speaking softer. “That’s not what I meant to imply. Forgive me.”

She’s quick to avert her gaze when his eyes meet hers again, looking instead to Josephine, who coughs politely into her hand, smooths her skirts with the discretion of one separate from the divergence at hand entirely.

“So you, Vivienne, and a small squadron of troops will depart for Val Royeaux tomorrow with your brother and Miss Holmes,” Leliana summarizes. “Was there something else?”

She’s known Cullen to be irritable in his lyrium withdrawal before, _of course_ , it’s _all_ she’d known of him when they’d first met, but not like this. He’s hesitant. He’s speaks from a place somewhere between opposition and concern and _I can’t read him._

But _we’re running out of time._

“Yes,” she says, clearing her throat. “Varric has been in contact with the Champion of Kirkwall.”

_And now the fallout._

It’s silent first, the thick weight of surprise and confusion and tension hanging heavy in the air until Josephine, so often the first among them to collect herself and address an issue with ease and professionalism, manages to squeak, “Oh my.”

When she looks at Cullen he’s wordless, but the way his face melts into a grimace, the way he raises his hands slowly, shakily, to massage his temples with his fingers tells her enough.

Only Leliana remains expressionless.

“And what does the Champion have to say?” the spymaster asks, collected and even-toned as ever.

“She has news of Corypheus,” Ellinor replies, tearing her eyes from Cullen, distracting herself from the way his face has become paler, somehow, than before. “And of the Grey Wardens.”

“Is that so?”

She meets Leliana’s ice-blue eyes across the table and nods solemnly, certain.

“She and Varric have encountered Corypheus before—”

“A fact he has conveniently neglected to reveal to us until now,” Leliana mutters.

“—and she has reason to believe he’s corrupted the Wardens somehow,” she finishes, tucking an escaped strand of hair back behind her ear, along the side of the braid Josephine had so patiently done for her earlier that morning. “She has a contact among their ranks. A defector now, I think. She wishes to speak with me—”

“Where?” Josephine asks, having collected herself, clasping her hands together before her.

“Here,” Ellinor replies. “At Skyhold. She—”

“When?” demands Leliana, and Ellinor exhales deeply, maintaining her composure.

“Soon,” she answers, tone calm, if cold. “According to Varric, she’s already on her—”

“When did Varric share this information with you?”

“Two nights ago. Upon our return from Halamshiral.”

“And why did you not—”

“Because we did not meet as a council until today, Leliana,” she says testily, feeling the heat rise to her cheeks again. “And because she’s not _here_ yet, and I didn’t feel the need to raise any undue concerns by divulging Varric’s information sooner than necessary.” She breathes deeply again, placing her palms flat on the table before her, over the southern portion of Ferelden where the wilds meet the uncharted lands. “At any rate, she’s due to arrive within the coming weeks. Not long after I return from Val Royeaux, I imagine, and then—”

“And what will she have us do?” Leliana asks.

It’s all she can do not to clench her fists. “I would not know,” she says through gritted teeth, “seeing as I’ve yet to speak with her. But her Grey Warden contact is located somewhere in Crestwood. I imagine I may need to travel there with her to meet him, and from there—”

“No,” Cullen says suddenly. He sounds gruff, hoarse, like he’s spent the entirety of their meeting shouting, not quiet and reserved in the corner of the war room, and though he’s yet to lower the fingers still pressed to his forehead, she can see the pain, the anger in his amber eyes as they meet hers across the table.

Leliana she can take. But not Cullen, too.

_We’ve been here before._

“No?” she repeats, standing her ground as Josephine shifts uncomfortably beside her, but her throat feels tight and her face hot.

He lowers his hand, revealing furrowed brows and narrowed eyes, crosses his arms, shakes his head. “No,” he says again, with exhaustion, with finality. “I _know_ Aurelia Hawke. Danger and destruction have followed in her wake from the moment I met her, and likely before—”

“I hardly think that’s justification to ignore her claims, Cullen,” she insists. “Surely you must agree.”

But it’s as if he’s not listening. He closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose. “Ellinor,” he pushes, exasperated, because it’s not _Lady Trevelyan_ anymore, it’s not _Inquisitor_ or _Herald_. Just _Ellinor_. “That’s not what I...if you’d only listen.”

“I _am_ listening!”

“You’re not!” he insists. “You weren’t there in Kirkwall. The last time I saw Hawke, half the city lay in ruins and its people with it. You don’t understand the kind of peril she attracts—you can’t possibly mean to trust her blindly without at least exploring other options. Other opinions.”

_You’re not._

_You weren’t there._

_You don’t understand._

_You can’t._

She bites her tongue, swallows back the stinging in her throat and the wounded feeling in her stomach.

 _You will not put me in my place just because you call me by my name_.

“Are you implying that we’re not to trust her, Commander?” she asks, and his eyes widen, if only for a moment, at the formality of the title before they darken again. “Because—”

“That _is_ what I’m implying, yes,” he replies, voice faltering briefly.

“So what is it that you propose we do instead?” she asks him, steeling over her confusion, her vulnerability. “Since you seem to find me incapable of—”

“I never said—” he starts, shaking his head, but she cuts him off.

“You deemed me incapable of traveling alone with Vivienne from Val Royeaux—”

“Perhaps we—” Josephine attempts, but she’s not finished.

“—and now you deem me incapable of making sound decisions regarding who I should choose to ally myself with,” she says tersely, blinking hard. “So I’d like to know what it is you want out of this situation instead.”

Josephine frowns; Leliana crosses her arms emotionlessly. She looks to neither. Only Cullen.

“Ellinor,” he murmurs, eyes pleading, voice quiet.

_Like he speaks when it’s just the two of us._

“ _Don’t_ ,” she warns, breaking on the word, choking back anything and everything else she’d like to tell him. _How can you look at me like that?_ and _how can you use my name like that?_ and _how can you use_ me _like that?_ and when her eyes begin to water and her fingernails dig into her palms, Josephine intervenes, clasps her hands together as though it’s been another ordinary meeting, as though no words had been shared between her and Cullen at all and it’s merely another council come and gone.

“I believe that is enough for today,” she says firmly.

* * *

_Hawke,_

_Swift knows. (Swift being Ellinor Trevelyan, Inquisitor and Herald of Andraste, or “Andraste’s bitch” as you so eloquently put it. Named for her way with knives. Could give you a run for your money.) Anyway, I expect she’ll inform the rest of her council soon enough—and that includes your old friend, Cullen. Cullen Rutherford. The Knight-Captain himself, who is no longer “Knight-Captain” nor “Knight-Commander.” Just “Commander.”_

_I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to see you._

_We’re expecting you soon, so no dilly-dallying in your old stomping grounds, all right? Swift means business. Shit’s not like Kirkwall anymore. It’s real._

_—Varric_

* * *

She’s given him little time to collect his thoughts when she storms after him from the war room to his office, eyes prickling with heat and tears and the sleeves of her jacket streaked wet where she’s wiped her face already, her sharp stride and blurred vision leading her to where he sits now with his elbows propped on his desk and his face in his hands, looking up only as the door hits the back wall with a _thump_ when she throws it open.

“Ell—”

_No._

“You made me look like a fool in front of Leliana and Josephine!” she interrupts him, wounded and fiery and heartbroken all at once. He sighs. _Sighs._

_He’s played me for a fool._

“They’d never have deferred to my decisions over yours,” he says tiredly, quiet even as she seethes before him. “Surely you know that.”

“Then why did you try to dissuade me?” she demands. “What did you want out of it?”

“‘Want’?” he repeats, shaking his head. “I didn’t—I don’t _want_ anything. I only hoped…” He trails off, sighs again, swallows. “It’s my job as your advisor to—”

“To _advise_ me,” she cries. “Not to speak down to me or put me in my place like a child!” She stops, wrings her hands if only to keep herself from covering her face, her eyes, the tears that remain a continued threat beneath her lashes. “I don’t—” she chokes. “I don’t _understand_ you, I don’t understand what it is you want from me, what—”

“I don’t want anything from you, Ellinor” he says quietly. She wants to believe him.

 _But I’ve been here before_.

A tear rolls down her cheek when she searches her eyes for lies, for the manipulation and deceit behind a false kindness and facade of romance she’s known from too many men before.

“Everybody wants something.”

“Ellinor,” he tries again, but she places a hand over her mouth in disbelief, in near-panic.

“Everybody wants something,” she repeats, unable to stop her tears now. “I should have—I’ve already—” She swallows. “You can’t use my feelings for you to sway my favor in the war room. I’m not—I won’t be your pawn, or anyone’s. All my life I’ve...I...Maker, I should never have…”

He shakes his head, eyes wide and unbelieving, at a loss. “Ell— _Lady Trevelyan_ ,” he corrects himself, maintaining the distance she’s set between them and she wishes it wouldn’t _hurt_ so much. “I would _never_...I would never have presumed...let alone…” He takes a deep breath, looks at her desperately, honey eyes begging for a sense of understanding his words dare not ask for. “If you think that I meant to take advantage of your trust to somehow—”

“Then why else—”

“Ell—”

“Don’t call me—”

“It’s because I _care_ for you!” he says, raising his voice just enough. For the first time since she’d stormed into his office, he speaks with clarity, with conviction. “It’s because I’m in _love_ with you, and because I couldn’t live with myself if I sent you out of here into unforeseen danger and you were hurt!”

She can’t breathe.

His words hit her like a blow to her stomach, knocking the air from her lungs and the strength from her muscles and the blood from her cheeks even as he can meet her eyes no longer, stares down at the papers strewn over his desk in defeat, or perhaps regret. Her heart _aches_ , her eyes burn, and every part of her that should feel glad instead says _no_ and _how could he?_

When she manages to speak again, it’s broken, unbelieving. “What,” she manages, her voice unsteady, uncertain, “are you talking about?”

His eyes are bright, pained, when he looks up again. “Did you really not know?” he asks her, barely a whisper. When she doesn’t answer, he rubs his eyes. Defeated. “When we danced together, at the Winter Palace,” he says, and she can the flush return to her cheeks, “did you not know how I felt for you then?”

“I—I don’t know,” she chokes, looking away from him.

“Ell—Lady Trevelyan,” he says, and she hates the way her family name sounds on his lips, “I would never have asked you to dance with me if I didn’t want...if I didn’t...Maker,” he stammers, and she’s too conflicted inside to even respond to him. “You think I could lie to you? That I would...take advantage of—”

“You _could_ have,” she chokes, voice breaking. “You wouldn’t have been the first.”

He bites his lip, expression a mixture of frustration and pity when he looks upon her now. “Lady Trevelyan,” he says finally, almost _regretfully,_ collecting himself once more. “That would be… Or rather… I may be many things, but I—I try very hard to make sure cruel isn’t one of them.”

_Enough._

She can’t breathe.

She can’t think.

“I have to go,” she mutters, turning, crossing to the door even as each step feels heavier, slower than the last, knowing he’s following her, trailing her as he had the night before.

“Do you not believe me?” he murmurs.

Her fingers shake as she opens the door, her entire body shakes as she’s wracked with sobs she’s held back since they stood across from each other in the war room and still she manages to collect herself one last time, turning back to him with tear-stained eyes and trembling breaths.

“Commander,” she manages, “I don’t...I _can’t_ …” She takes one last deep breath, face to face with him.

“Commander, you are a fool.”

But somehow, her harsh words don’t deter him. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t retreat. He only looks at her with nothing but himself to give, nothing but his words and his honesty and the ghost of an apology behind his lips even as she chokes on her own words, feels their fire in her throat and in her heart and it’s not until the door is nearly closed behind her that he speaks again, words soft and quiet as the look in his eyes before she’d turned away from him.

“Only a fool for you, Ellinor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my aurelia-writing muscles were a little rusty, so i wrote her [a little DA2-era ficlet](https://bitchesofostwick.tumblr.com/post/185120694913/hey-isabella-how-about-the-hanged-man-from) last friday if anyone's interested


	28. Apologies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i had to split the POV this chapter. i didn't want to but it seemed like the best way. i might do it for the next chapter also, but after that it's back to your regularly scheduled clean tight single-POV chapters i PROMISE.

She hadn’t stopped after she left Cullen’s office. She’d been nearly blinded by the tears pooling in her eyes but she passed over the battlements, ignoring the rigid salute, the murmured _Your Worship_ from the evening guard keeping watch, passed through Solas’ rotunda, pushed through the great hall, avoiding Varric’s _Swift?_ , didn’t stop until she was back in her tower, up both flights of stairs, both doors shut tightly behind her and only then did she sink to her knees on the too-soft Orlesian area rug Vivienne had picked out for her months earlier and _sob_.

She’d felt like was choking.

She’d felt like was falling.

 _I care for you_ he’d said, and _I’m in love with you._

She’d never before known the words to be well intended.

_In love._

She’s not sure when she’d managed to crawl into bed but when she wakes the next morning to a knock on her door, she’s under covers, eyes stinging, mouth dry. _Go away_ , she wants to shout, but she can hardly put a voice to the words in her raw throat, and if it’s Avery, she might have to push him away, and if it’s Sera, she might scream.

It’s neither.

It’s Josephine.

“Oh dear,” she whispers as soon as she’s crossed the threshold, and she takes the remaining stairs two at a time— _Josephine—_ until she meets her, gathering her golden skirts before she kneels beside her on the mattress and in an instant her arms are wrapped around her, her fingers running gently through her hair. “Did you speak with him again last night?”

She can only nod, numb.

“Was he still being disagreeable?” Josephine begins tactfully.

She shakes her head. Coughs, rubs the morning out of her eyes. “I yelled at him,” she starts, voice broken, the sadness hitting her again like a storm front. “And then we argued. Like before.” _Maker_ , they hadn’t fought like that in so long and she’d thought it was behind them but _no_. “And then he…” She takes a deep, shaking breath. “He said—he told me he _loves_ me.”

She waits for the reaction, for the signature Josephine gasp, the look of surprise—perhaps even shock, or concern. There is none. She only nods slowly, continuing to rub Ellinor’s back with one hand and pull stray pieces of hair from her tear-streaked face with the other.

“He’s been...planning it since Halamshiral,” she continues, looking for any sign of surprise.

“‘Planning’?” Josephine repeats, and Ellinor furrows her brow.

“Because we’d danced then,” she mutters. “I thought...I mean, I’d _wanted—_ but I never really thought…” Her eyes feel hot again, the disbelief and denial sinking in once more. “I thought he didn’t even know _how_ to dance,” she mutters.

Josephine laughs then, in spite of her tears. “Cullen? He did not,” she replies. “Who do you think had to teach him? At his request, nonetheless?”

“I don’t—”

“And how many women do you think he turned down before seeking you to dance? Many, Ellinor.”

_It was easier when it was only a dance._

“He can’t care for me,” she says hopelessly. “Not without...strings attached.”

“And why is that?”

“Because everyone wants something,” she whispers.

_Again._

“And what do _you_ want?” Josephine lets go, finally, sits back on the carpet, smoothing her skirts over as she looks back to Ellinor expectantly. “Do not think about what Cullen wants or does not want for now. What about you? Have you not cared for him?”

She rubs her eyes. She thinks of their time spent together in the library and the kitchens. In his office. She thinks of the way her heart hurts when she sees him ill, the way it flutters when smiles, the way it had felt so full when he’d held her close and danced with her until after the ball had ended.

“I don’t—”

“Ellinor,” Josephine presses, her voice louder now, firm, though her eyes are soft. “When have you ever known Cullen to play the Game? When have you ever known him to lie or deceive for personal gain?”

She thinks of the time he’d whispered _the Game isn’t here_ , pulled her away from the schemes, the secrets, secured her, grounded her.

“He has always been honest with you,” the ambassador continues. “Long ago, I might have said _too_ honest—honest even when a lie might have been kinder. But Ellinor, I do not think he could lie to you if he _tried_.”

She feels another tear roll down her cheek. And another.

_He’s in love with me._

“He—he said he didn’t want anything from me and I still told him—”

“It is all right,” soothes Josephine.

“It’s _not_ ,” Ellinor argues, blinking back tears. “I said... _horrible_ things to him. I yelled at him. I was so afraid of it being true.”

_I called him a fool._

_And he_ loves _me._

But Josephine doesn’t seem concerned, instead offering an encouraging smile, brushing the tears from her cheeks with a gentle thumb.

“I do not think he wants anything _from_ you,” she says thoughtfully. “I think he just wants _you_.”

* * *

_Varric._

_Where is Hawke?_

_Fenris_

* * *

The lyrium sings loudly through the sleepless night and into the next morning, the sun taunting him with too-bright light as it rises over the mountains and shines into his office through the stained glass windows he’s allowed to thicken with dust in hopes of preventing mornings like these, but in the end the pain is too much, the song too strong for any measures he’s taken against it. It is relentless, merciless, _fool_ , it seethes, _she isn’t yours_ and _she’ll never be yours_ and he knows he’s said too much the day before and he feels sick with it all, _fool_ again and _how could you ever think you might deserve her?_

Twice he rises from his desk chair where he’d sat awake all night, crosses the room on unsure feet and unsteady legs to the shelf where he keeps a little wooden box tucked away to prove he’s strong enough to live alongside temptation and resist it. He runs a finger—bare, for once, gloves long since forgotten as the night went on and his hands grew clammy, pins and needles and tremors bothering him too much to keep up appearances only he would see anyway—over the worn edge, the glimmering hinges in the back, the jagged latch in the front. He doesn’t open it. He doesn’t need to. He knows its contents like he knows the lines of Transfigurations 1—well enough to remember, well enough to wish to forget.

And twice he replaces it on the shelf between two volumes of _The Legend of Calenhad_ and returns, painfully, to his desk. He’s not sure, not really, if he’s strong enough. He’s not very sure of anything anymore. Only that he’s made it this far without giving in, and that he’d made it fairly far before Ellinor had come around to him, soft words and encouragement and laughing over supper and cups of tea brewed before bedtime and _oh_ , but _she’s not yours._

When the sun is high enough in the sky that the morning patrols pass through his office with murmured _good morning, Ser_ s and quiet _Commander_ s whispered behind thinly veiled looks of pity, or worse, shock, he straightens, pulls his usual tight-lipped grimace and nods in return, offers short salutes in dismissal.

“But Private,” he grunts as the last of the patrol nears the exit to the ramparts, and the poor soul nearly jumps at the sound of his hoarse voice alone, “see to it that I’m not—”

“—not disturbed today, Ser. Of course.”

Another day he might berate the private for his insolence but it’s the third time in as many days that he’s issued such an order and _of course he knows_ and _the whole keep must know_ and then he only nods, sends him off with a tired wave of the hand and returns to himself and his thoughts and the song as soon as the door is shut behind him.

 _She leaves today_ , he thinks to himself, shuffling the stacks of forms and reports on his desk for the second time— _or perhaps the third_ , he can’t quite remember—and it’s possible she’s left already, wouldn’t doubt she’d be in a hurry to get away and now he’s certain that he won’t see her again until she returns from Val Royeaux.

_I should never have said anything._

Just two nights before, she’d sat beside him at the same desk, softspoken and kind with tender gazes he very well might have imagined.

_Surely anything there’d been between us is gone now._

He shuffles his reports again, eyes somehow aching and watery all at once, mouth dry, head splitting. _No nausea today_ , he notes, and if nothing else, he is grateful for that much.

The early morning passes without much incident. He works uninterrupted by outside factors, pausing instead only on his own account, to rub his temples or close his eyes for a few moments before returning to his papers. The only passerby are his own patrols who, judging by their exceptional silence and discretion, have been warned by the first guard of his state of well being.

It’s not until midmorning, eyes straining as he pours over the small writing in an equipment ledger, head spinning if he squints too hard, that he receives the first knock on his door. And one is more than enough. He’s silent, save for a barely voiced hum of disapproval. He thinks _surely, they’ll leave_.

They don’t leave.

The door to his office creaks just so when it opens, allowing a stream of light he can only barely ignore if he stares at the pages of his ledger closely enough.

“I’m not to be disturbed this morning,” he mutters, cold and unforgiving as he scribbles notes into the book, and he sits, waiting, for his visitor to leave him alone.

“Cullen?”

_Ellinor._

He stands immediately, headache and weak knees be damned. He’s not sure if he’s more shocked that she called him by his name or simply that she’s here, in his office, in the flesh—without second thought he rounds his desk, runs a shameful hand over his unshaven jaw, looks her over quickly, nervously.

She’s dressed for travel—dark leathers, a close-fitting jacket, tall boots with knives strapped into each, all unadorned clothing, unmarked. She wears her usual braid, the one he’d seen Josephine twist into her hair one morning before a war council meeting when he’d been so intimidated, nearly afraid to speak with her. He feels mostly the same now.

_But Maker, she’s lovely._

“Don’t stand on my account,” she says kindly—perhaps far kinder than he deserved—and it’s the same words she’d said to him two nights ago when he’d stood to whisper goodnight to her and just like he hadn’t then, he will not retreat.

When he doesn’t return to his desk, she frowns, eyes scanning over him until he shifts uncomfortably on his feet, feeling the blood rush to his face.

“Cullen,” she murmurs. “Are you all right?”

 _I’m not_ , he thinks, _I’m sick_ and _I haven’t slept_ and _I’ve ruined everything_ and _worst of all, I love you._

“I thought you’d have left for Val Royeaux by now,” he says simply.

She gives a small half shrug, attempting to hide the way her eyes flicker downward for a fraction of a second but he sees. He knows. “I can be late,” she says, offering a sad smile. “They won’t leave without me.”

He nods, quietly, and her smile fades away, and for a moment they stand across from one another, the space between them like miles of open road until at last he thinks to speak.

“I wanted to say—”

“I shouldn’t have—”

They stop. He rubs his neck; she looks to the floor.

“Don’t say that you’re sorry, Cu—”

“But I _am_ ,” he insists, voice trembling like his hands and he searches his eyes for anything. _For forgiveness, maybe_. “Ellinor, I never meant...I mean, I do believe in you, wholeheartedly, in your capabilities.”

“Cullen—”

“And Maker, if I could ever stop being a fool and learn to support you the way you’ve supported me. I’m sorry for—for questioning your traveling party, for admonishing you for your plans with Hawke, and…” He clears his throat. “Please, I—I never meant to upset you. I’m so sorry. I never wanted...I would never have wanted to see you hurt, I only meant—”

“Cullen,” she interrupts him, voice breaking, ringing within him and making his heart ache with only the sound of it, “please, Cullen, don’t apologize. For anything.”

“But I—”

“I’m sorry,” she says quietly, and he can barely breathe, can barely think as she steps forward, closing the gap between them.

_But I hurt you._

She smells of soap and herbs and what he wouldn’t give to close his eyes and breathe her in like he had once before, just days ago at Halamshiral, though it seems another lifetime from now.

“I’m sorry,” she says again, her voice so soft and delicate he could miss it, were they not alone and in his office, “for...ever doubting your intentions. You, of all people.”

He feels as though he’s shaking when he finally takes a breath—not from the withdrawals, not from illness. “I’m sorry anyone’s ever given you reason to doubt,” he murmurs at last, truthfully, but she shakes her head.

“No. That’s not who you are,” she whispers, and she reaches out, cautiously, carefully, cups his jaw in the palm of her hand, presses her lips to the stubble running along his cheek—a kiss too long to be chaste, too long to leave any room for interpretation, really, and yet not nearly long enough to satisfy him.

He wants to say _wait_ or _stop_ or most of all her name, just _Ellinor_ , but for all the times his mouth opens and his lips move, he has no voice, no words, and she pulls away, rocks back onto the flats of her boots, and gives him the same melancholy smile she’d worn before.

“Take care of yourself until I return,” she says softly. _Sadly_. “Please.”

_And what then, Ellinor?_

But he waits too long.

She leaves. A single, lost look back to him and she’s slipping out the door, out to the ramparts, _she’s slipping away_ and he finds his feet before he finds his words and in spite of the aches and the sunlight he crosses the room, burts through the doors and out into the cool mountain air to find her trailing away, nearing the stairs and—

“Ellinor!” he calls after her, and she turns back expectantly, cheeks already pink against from the chill in the air, and _Maker, she’s so beautiful, always_. He half-jogs toward her, heart full and fluttering and terrified all at once. “Ellinor, I...” he tries, but words don’t come easily, _of course, they never do_ and yet _she’s so patient_ , waiting, looking back at him with wide eyes, rosy lips. “I can’t—I—” He brushes his fingers across the back of his neck, exasperated, but _she waits._ “Ellinor, every time I’m around you, you always—I just wish I could—I only mean—”

“You can.”

He gapes at her.

“Whatever it is you were going to say,” she whispers, voice shaking but walls down, defenses relinquished in a move of vulnerability that briefly makes him wonder if he’s dreaming, “or whatever it is you were going to do. You can.”

He stares at her for a moment longer, searching for any remaining barriers, anything holding her back, but there’s nothing.

It’s just her.

So he kisses her.

It doesn’t start slow at first. It’s quick, hard, a push from his own lips to hers lest he lose any confidence he’s managed to muster and back out but when she responds—gasping once, in through her nose before easing back, softening—then he knows she’s meant it.

_You can._

_Then_ it’s slow. Then he leans down further, meeting her where she stands, finding her waist in his ungloved hands but he doesn’t need to pull, she’s leaning into him already and so he moves them upward, finds her face, finds her skin. Her cheeks are cold beneath his fingers and her nose is cold against his own but _Maker, her mouth is warm_ and she’d smelled like herbs before but now he knows it’s royal elfroot, honey, and he can taste the black coffee from her lips, sweeter ever than any he’d take with sugar.

It’s ill advised.

But Maker, he _needs her_ , needs her to know what she does to him, what sort of miserable fool she reduces him to and if all he ever feels again are the tug of her lips, her breath on his cheek, he might die a fulfilled man.

It’s not until the pain catches up to him, the sharp reminder of the lyrium’s call that he’s brought back, doubts, pulls away abruptly, leaving her breathless, her fingers still tangled in the fur trim of his cloak.

_Fool._

_She’s not yours._

“Commander, Ser,” a recruit calls out, not far from them now though the voice seems distant, the air suddenly warm, constricting.

“That was...” he stutters, turning red, and she looks up at him, wide eyes, shallow breaths. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—I should go.”

“Cullen,” she breathes. _Pleads_.

“Ser! The morning’s reports are here.”

 _She can’t want this_ , he thinks, and then _I don’t even know what she wants_ and finally _I’ve never known_.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, backing away, suppressing his panic. “I have to go, I—I’m sorry.”

He turns away from her then, can’t bear to watch her go and he’s ruined it. Again. _Be safe_ , he should have told her, but she isn’t his to tell. _Come back to me,_ he should have said, can barely hear his own thoughts over the turning in his stomach and the song of lyrium undrunk still ringing in his ears.

_She isn’t yours._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one of my dearest friends (and one of the most wonderful artists i know) [brought this scene to life](https://fourletterepithet.tumblr.com/post/180025468634/bitchesofostwicks-indomitable-ellinor-trevelyan) many months before when i'd only just begun writing and outlining this story—and here we are, june 2019, finally reaching the chapter i'd first let her catch a glimpse of so long ago. thank you always alex <3


	29. Leaving Behind

She is, for among so few times in her life, speechless.

When she meets Avery, Bridget, and Vivienne by the stables, she has no answer to Avery’s teasing _overslept, Ell?_ nor Vivienne’s _if you’re about ready now, darling, we’re already running behind schedule._ She can only manage a murmured _morning_ to Bridget’s _good morning, Ellinor_ , and after a short and mumbled assertion that Avery and Bridget are to take any mounts of their choosing—a parting gift from the Inquisition, as approved by Josephine—she selects one of her own, a Ferelden Forder among a growing stock King Alistair had sent over in part as an apology following his less than cordial first meeting with Ellinor and in part because the Trevelyan crest is a horse, and as he’d written in one of his letters, _you must really like horses, then_. She supposed it was a joke, but the horses are hardy, so she hasn’t complained.

Even as they descend the mountains, she says little. There’s no snow, for once, and though the sun shines brightly on the chilly western slopes of the Frostbacks, she hardly feels the warmth on her skin or notices the sunlight in her eyes. She thinks of little but the feeling of Cullen’s lips on her own, the way he’d seemed at a loss for words beforehand, _always at a loss_ and still, he kissed her. _He_ kissed _her_ and just as she’d had a chance to catch herself, settle down, he’d pulled away. Ended it. Apologized.

 _He regretted it_.

Avery questions her a couple of times to no avail; Vivienne mutters _utterly catatonic_ once under her breath but otherwise leaves her alone. The nights they spend at camp between Skyhold and the city are as quiet as the days they spend riding if not more so. She attempts conversation with Bridget twice if only to be polite: _have you visited Val Royeaux before?_ to which she’d answered _no_ , and then _it’s a lovely city_ to which Bridget only smiled. Later that night she hears Bridget whisper to Avery _she must be quite upset if she and Cullen were fighting_ and that does it.

_Everyone knows._

Still, she feels like she’s walking through a dream.

She’s had no word from him. _Not that he’s anything to say_ , she thinks miserably, and yet a part of her still awaits a raven from Leliana’s rookery at any moment with word, a letter, something, anything. None ever comes, and as the days pass, she grows more and more anxious to reach their destination and turn back once more—truthfully, she could never have imagined being so happy to reach Lyssa’s home, and yet when they finally arrive in Val Royeaux—colorful and sun-warmed and bright and welcoming—days after the start of their journey, she’s glad, relieved, if only because she has a chance to refocus her thoughts. Breathe.

Where Lyssa stores horses in a city so winding and bustling as Val Royeaux is beyond her but when they reach the row of residences in which Lyssa and her husband live, there is a stable boy outside, ready to take her Forder and the others’ mounts as well.

“Wait outside,” she instructs the guard when the horses have been taken care of, and when she approaches the great wooden door before them, she can hear Avery suck in a quiet breath.

She knocks.

She’s visited Lyssa’s home three times before, the most recent being nearly three years prior. _It looks the same,_ she thinks; it’s tucked away on the lower city level, Mathieu being wealthy enough to live far from the docks but not so wealthy that he and Lyssa live in the upper city. It’s painted blue on the outside, as is standard—Lyssa had called it _cheery_ upon her first visit mere weeks after she and Mathieu were wed, but Ellinor had found it dull.

 _Still do_.

It’s not Lyssa who opens the door—it’s a housemaid, _Bertie_ if Ellinor can remember correctly—but her sister is only steps behind, bursting through the threshold as soon as space allows for her billowing skirts and her wide open arms and—

“Avery!” she cries, nearly _barreling_ past her and it’s all Ellinor can do to step out of the way.

“Lyss,” he starts, warmly, opening his arms in turn, catching her when she reaches him before folding her into a tight hug and for a moment it’s as though they’re a pair of acquaintances meeting after a year apart, not brother and sister reuniting after twelve years of absence.

But then, _Lyssa’s not you, Ell_ , Avery had told her.

“I don’t believe my presence here is quite necessary, darling,” Vivienne murmurs in Ellinor’s ear. “I have a few friends to call on. We can reconvene later.”

“But—” she begins to protest, feeling she has neither the upper hand as she often does with Lyssa nor Avery’s attention as she has since his arrival at Skyhold. _Feeling out of place_. She swallows, clenches her fists so that the leather of her gloves tightens over her knuckles. “Yes,” she says quietly, taking a deep breath. “Of course. Thank you, Vivienne.”

With a short nod, the first enchanter departs.

“I’ve missed you,” Lyssa murmurs into Avery’s shoulder. They’re nearly the same height, both taller than Ellinor, both thin. “I’ve missed you so much.”

“Me too, Lyss.”

“And Ellie—” she says, parting from him finally to look at her through eyes welled with tears, bright with a happiness she’d known herself mere weeks earlier. Lyssa throws her arms around her next, tulle on leather, pale pink on deep black and Ellinor can barely find her footing, much less her arms, as her sister hugs her close and murmurs in her ear, “thank you for letting me see him.”

But Ellinor can only shake her head, stiff and stunned and only barely able to raise a hand and place it carefully on her shoulder; _don’t thank me_.

“I’m not his keeper,” she says finally. “He is a free man now.”

When Lyssa pulls away, she meets her eyes for a moment, if brief.

 _I won’t keep him_ , she thinks, _but you will not lose him._

She understands.

The smile returns to Lyssa’s face as though nothing had been said between them. “And Bridget,” she says warmly, turning from Ellinor now, clasping Bridget’s hands in her own. “It’s so lovely to meet you and have you both stay with us!”

She glances at Avery. He’s smiling, beaming, _he’s happy_ , and she offers a quiet smile back as Lyssa loops her arm in Bridget’s and ushers them all indoors.

“Thank you, Ell,” he murmurs.

She can only nod wordlessly, swallowing a familiar lump in her throat.

“Mathieu—my husband, that is—is working,” Lyssa explains, leading them into a sunlit sitting room. She’s bolder than usual— _happier_ , really—friendly and warm as she gestures toward an overstuffed loveseat embroidered in fleurs-de-lis, and Avery and Bridget sit; Ellinor selects the adjacent sofa with similar upholstery and mahogany arms, and Lyssa perches on a chaise across from them. “He’s in the merchant’s trade, so he has an office by the docks and—well, you’ll meet him later,” she continues. “And you—Avery, look at you.” Her smile reaches ear to ear when she watches him from her chaise, eyes still bright, still teary as she talks rapidly, as though waiting to be cut off at any moment. “You’re so grown up now. You _and_ Ellie, but of course I’ve...I haven’t...”

“It’s been some time,” he offers, with a warm if awkward smile—one that she returns.

“It has,” she admits.

 _Only fourteen years,_ Ellinor thinks bitterly, but Lyssa doesn’t miss a beat. _She never does_.

“And you’ve brought Bridget, too,” she says, beaming. “It’s only a pity Commander Cullen couldn’t accompany…” Her voice trails off when Avery begins to shake his head—almost violently so, and enough that Ellinor feels her cheeks turning red. “Ellie?” Lyssa ventures, _because she can never just let things go_. “Did something—”

“Nothing has happened between me and Cullen,” she snaps.

Lyssa frowns. “I can see why that might upset you.”

“I’m not upset,” Ellinor mutters through gritted teeth.

Avery clears his throat, and Bridget folds her hands in her lap uncomfortably. “I thought...” Avery starts. “Well, I thought that you two got into an argument the other day.” It’s said more as a question than an observation; he knows it’s true but he’s too mindful of her feelings to not give her a chance to explain. “It’s just what Leliana had mentioned in passing,” he adds quickly.

“We did,” Ellinor confirms, playing with the hem of her jacket. “He...didn’t want me to come here with just Vivienne. And then he was upset about a mission I’m to undertake in a few week’s time.” It’s silent when she looks up, clear that the others are waiting for more, and she feels the worries from their travels pool into her stomach once more. “Because,” she continues, “he was concerned for my safety.”

Lyssa gasps softly, places a hand over her mouth to hide her smile, and Avery snorts.

“That’s quite nice,” Bridget offers kindly, and Lyssa nods.

“I always thought he was nice.”

“You’ve met him _once_ , Lyssa,” Ellinor growls, but Lyssa only crosses her ankles beneath the chaise, clasps her hands in the lap of her skirts, and raises her eyebrows, laughter hidden in her brown eyes.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she replies— _not sorry at all_ , Ellinor thinks, and maybe it’s Avery’s presence along with them but she’s not so timid as usual and in spite of the matter at hand, she thinks she prefers her this way. “Is he not?”

“Well, he’s—”

“He’s very nice!” Avery chimes in. “Very gentlemanly. Strong and _protective_.”

Lyssa mouths a silent _ooh_ , an exaggerated look of intrigue on her face when she turns back to Ellinor, awaiting a response. “Is that true, Ellie?”

She waits for an answer, the size of her grin second only to Avery’s, who flashes her a wink in return.

Ellinor scowls. “I don’t know,” she mumbles. “He might be strong. Probably.”

“Well then I really don’t see what you’re waiting for,” teases Lyssa. “I mean, all the cards are in play. He’s kind, he certainly cares about you—”

“He searched for me and Bridget for ages, and all for Ellinor, you know,” Avery points out, and Lyssa throws her hands up as though the answer is obvious.

“I’m not _waiting_ for anything,” she mumbles. “I just don’t know if—”

“Ellie,” Lyssa presses, and Ellinor’s throat feels tight. “He’s done all he can short of saying ‘I love you.’”

Her face grows cool now as the color drains from her cheeks and her fingers squeeze the leather of her jacket ever harder.

“And I’m sure he will at this point,” chuckles Avery, oblivious to her sudden quiet. “Lyss, you should see them around each other—”

“You should have seen them looking at each other that night in the tavern,” Bridget agrees.

“And then when they—”

“Ellie,” Lyssa says quietly, and the others are silent.

_She knows._

She swallows.

“What?”

She continues fiddling with her jacket, fingers nearly numb, heart pounding, and in the corner of her eye she can see Lyssa rise from her chaise, hear her skirts _swish_ as she crosses the room, feel the stiff cushion of the sofa sink ever so slightly as she sits beside her, and Avery and Bridget are silent.

“He already told you, didn’t he?” Lyssa asks softly.

She can only nod.

“Then what’s wrong?”

“I didn’t believe him.”

“Ellie,” she whispers sadly, and Avery and Bridget still sit just feet away but suddenly it feels like it’s only her and Lyssa, suddenly she wishes it only _were_ her and Lyssa.

“And then when I realized he meant it, I apologized,” she mumbles. “And...he kissed me, and then he stopped suddenly, and he apologized, and he left, and that was days ago now and I haven’t been able to see him or speak to him but he probably thinks it was a mistake and regrets it ever happening in the first place and—”

“Ellie,” she whispers, reaching out slowly, tilting her chin toward her with two careful fingers, “Ellie. Why would you say that?”

“I don’t know,” she chokes. “I don’t know why else—I’m just...I don’t know.”

“He doesn’t regret it.”

“You don’t know what—”

“You’re biased,” Lyssa says, speaking out against her, and it feels like a slap in the face and yet she knows her words mean no harm but it’s _Lyssa_. “You’re biased because you’re afraid,” she continues. “You shouldn’t be.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” she whispers, and Lyssa shrugs solemnly.

“And hard for you to believe,” she agrees. “I don’t place the blame on you for that. No one should."

Ellinor sighs. “I care for him,” she says softly, and Lyssa nods encouragingly. “I want to be with him. I only wish that—”

“No,” Lyssa says firmly. “Don’t worry about things you can’t control. All you can do is tell him how you feel. But—Ellie. If he’s told you he loves you, I don’t see why that might have changed. Just tell him. Let him know. And then let things take their course.”

She takes a deep breath. _She means well_ , and quite possibly _this is the longest I’ve gone without interrupting her_ and she exhales again, inhales again.

“Thank you, Lyssa,” she says quietly.

After another few moments, Avery breaks the silence again by pointing out the ribbon streamers in the city square— _they certainly weren’t there when Mother and Father brought us twenty years ago_ he points out and Lyssa laughs and Bridget grins and it’s as though there’d never been a deviation in conversation. She’s little to offer to the conversation—she can barely remember the visit herself but she’s glad for the distraction, and in time, she finds herself with a small smile as well.

She stays a few hours. Lyssa insists on serving lunch—small sandwiches, pots of tea, the little chocolate Orlesian biscuits Cullen always complained were overpriced but Ellinor knew he loved anyway—and not very long afterward, Vivienne returns— _better to leave with a few hours before sundown, my dear_ —and Ellinor agrees and suddenly she finds herself exactly where they’d started, out on the cool gray cobblestone outside the too-blue building, Lyssa in the threshold and Avery and Bridget bidding her farewell.

She turns to Bridget first, all shy smiles and blonde Fereldan hair and kind eyes.

“Goodbye, Bridget,” she says gently, and it’s Bridget who pulls _her_ into a hug.

“Thank you, Ellinor,” she says kindly. “For everything.”

With a last squeeze, she lets her go, and Ellinor turns to Avery, a familiar heat growing in her eyes.

“Write,” she says immediately, trying to ignore it. It’s not a question, but a demand. “And visit if you should ever need to.”

“I could say the same to you,” he chuckles, pulling her into a tight hug. When he’s close enough, when no one else can hear, he murmurs softly to her. “It’ll be fine, Ell.”

She nods, blinking rapidly.

“Okay,” she manages.

He lets go first, leaving just Lyssa, hands clasped before her, a cautious smile on her face. They’ve never parted so calmly, so well. She doesn’t pull her into a hug, not this time, only leans in and places her hands firmly upon her shoulders.

“Goodbye, Ellie,” she whispers, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek. “Be safe, please. And be happy.”

* * *

_Ser Rutherford,_

_Ellinor may be too stubborn to see the things that happen right in front of her, but please understand that I am not. We spoke briefly at Celene’s ball; I told you then that I knew you cared for her in the way you looked at her alone. After speaking with her today, I know that my assumption was correct, and though I wish for her happiness more than she understands—and possibly, it would seem, more than she wishes for it herself—I understand fully and with a heavy heart the hesitations she holds._

_Ellinor has been courted by many men in her life. She has never before been pursued by one with her best interests at heart, let alone by one who loves her. Too many times, she has been wronged and she has been hurt by those who should have cared for her—suitors, of course, but our family as well. She is stubborn and she is guarded, but not without reason. She has a good heart, and she always has—one ready to give to those she deems worthy, like her friends, like our brother, and like, I suspect, you._

_I ask first that you show her a kindness so many others have not, and that if you love her, do so without reservation. Few people—few things—have granted her happiness since she was a girl, but when she speaks of you, it’s with hope in her voice. I would ask you to be mindful of that. Finally, I ask that you watch over her. We both know that she neither asks for nor needs much protecting. But her task is a dangerous one, and I would be heartbroken to see any harm come to her._

_Cordially,_

_Lyssa LeClaire_


	30. The Lion's Den (Reprise)

_If you love her, do so without reservation._

He’s unfolded and refolded, read and reread Lyssa’s letter too many times to count. Truthfully, he hadn’t known where to go from where he’d left Ellinor on the day of her departure from Val Royeaux. He never should have kissed her. He never should have told her, in the midst of without question their worst argument since Haven, that he had feelings for her. Granted, he had never hoped that she could possibly feel the same, but nonetheless, it was wrong. It was all wrong—not at all how he’d envisioned telling her, since of course he’d never really envisioned telling her in the first place. It was unplanned, undisciplined, and quite unlike anything he would normally do in his right mind but he’s gone and said it and now she’s left and all he can do is wait.

_I love her_ , but that’s about as far as he’d figured out.

He’d concentrated his efforts on getting well again. _Take care of yourself until I return_ , she’d asked him, and he was not about to disappoint her in any more ways than he already had so he goes to bed early, wakes up in time for drills, forces down meals until he regains an appetite for them again. He brews what tea he has left in the small jar she’d given him, drinks it throughout the day with honey, takes breaks from his work when he should, until he begins to feel better. He supposes it’s enough.

It certainly seems good to Cassandra, who visits his office when Ellinor has been gone just over a week.

“You seem yourself again,” she says when she steps inside, closes the door behind her. No _hello, Cullen_ , but he’s learned to expect nothing less.

“I’m doing better,” he says. Cautiously. It’s only just past lunch, exactly when she might begin her shield training with Bull on a normal day. He’s never one to turn down a visit from a friend but _something is off_.

“That is good,” she says with a short nod, placing her hands on her hips before dropping them quickly to her sides once more. He raises an eyebrow at her, and she frowns. “I suppose you are wondering why I have come here.”

He shrugs.

“I believe we may need to discuss...this.”

_Eloquent as ever_ , he thinks dryly, and though he’s quite certain of what “this” refers to, he furrows his brow anyway. “Discuss what?”

Cassandra sighs. “I know that it is a delicate matter,” she starts slowly. “And I am sure it is not one you wish to discuss with me. And normally, it is not something I might get in the middle of myself. But the fact is that what’s going on between you and Ellinor—”

_And there it is._

“—is getting quite out of hand,” she finishes. “You have hardly spoken to anyone beyond giving your soldiers orders for days.”

“I haven’t exactly been feeling—”

“You were suffering from withdrawal symptoms before we left for Halamshiral as well,” she interrupts him. “That is not what this is about, and you know it. I do not know exactly what...transpired...between you before she left for Val Royeaux, but I know that something has changed, and I know that you are—”

She’s stopped when the room is once more flooded with light, the door to the battlements thrown open with force and the silhouette of a familiar figure in mage’s robes standing in the way.

“Cullen!” Dorian all but shouts, nearly slamming the door back against the wall. “We need to talk about you and Ellinor.”

“Maker,” Cassandra mutters, pressing her fingers to her brow and shaking her head. “Dorian, we agreed—”

“You and Dorian were discussing me and Ellinor?” Cullen asks, reddening both from embarrassment and from frustration. “Behind my—behind _both_ of our backs?”

Dorian ignores him. “Yes, yes,” he sighs, bored, walking about Cullen’s office. “We agreed that double-teaming Cullen would only make him defensive and that it would be best if we spoke to him separately. But I decided that was a silly idea, so here I am.”

Cassandra grits her teeth. “Wonderful.”

“This is _not_ appropriate,” Cullen sputters, but Dorian flashes him a grin and Cassandra can only roll her eyes.

“It is not necessarily inappropriate,” she ventures. “Cullen, the fact is that—”

“—that Ellinor is, for whatever reason, quite smitten with you,” Dorian interjects, and she glares at him.

_He doesn’t know_ , Cullen thinks, but _even then..._

“Ellinor…” he sighs, waving his hand about, searching for words, “deserves better than me.” Cassandra frowns.

“Well, that is not quite—”

“While that may be true, Commander,” Dorian interrupts, sending a scowl to Cassandra’s lips in an instant, “what Ellinor ‘deserves’ and what she _wants_ are not necessarily the same thing. And what she wants...well, the fact is that what she wants will make her happy. And you’ve told me yourself many times that you do wish for her happiness, isn’t that right?”

He purses his lips. “Of course I—”

“Then the matter is solved,” snaps Dorian. “Or it should be. Honestly, if the two of you could actually sit _still_ for more than a few moments and talk about your thoughts or emotions or whatever you have then perhaps the rest of us wouldn’t have to deal with you moping about or her crying or you wallowing in self-pity or her getting snappy with her friends because no one ever taught her how to process her feelings like the rest of us sorry folks and _yes_ —” he says pointedly to Cassandra, “—I _did_ mean to say that out loud. I don’t care. You two are being ridiculous. I’m quite sick of it, and so is Cassandra, even if she’d rather say it differently.”

“Well, I…” she stammers. “I...well, yes. I suppose so, yes.”

He can feel the heat on his face, in his ears. _Both of them,_ he thinks, Cassandra and Dorian, accusing— _accosting_ him of matters they had nothing to do with. He crosses his arms, at a loss for words, and thinks back to Lyssa’s letter.

_She has a good heart, and she always has,_ she’d written. _One ready to give to those she deems worthy...like, I suspect, you._

“Cassandra was right when she said this isn’t something she’d usually get in the middle of,” he says, perhaps more coldly than he means but _it’s true_. “I would prefer if you leave it for me and Ellinor to discuss ourselves.”

Dorian snorts. “We tried that, and look how well it’s—”

“We have said our piece, Dorian,” Cassandra admonishes. “I think that is enough.” She nods once more to Cullen before retreating to the door, Dorian closely—if reluctantly—following her. But just as he reaches the threshold, he turns back once more.

“For what it’s worth, Cullen,” he mutters, “you also have a gross tendency to undervalue your _own_ happiness. You can play selfless tortured do-gooder all you wish in your work, but it’s not helping anyone here. Not this time.”

* * *

_Dear Ell,_

_I’m not sure which will arrive at Skyold first—you or this letter. But I wanted to write and to let you know that all is well in Val Royeaux. It’s only been a few days, but Bridget and I really like it here so far. Lyssa’s husband is kind, and very intelligent. I’m glad she married someone who so clearly cares for her, as I doubt “love” was at the top of Mother and Father’s priorities in potential matches for her._

_Speaking of Lyssa, she’s happier and more sure of herself than I remember, even if only a little. I’m glad. I hope you’re not too hard on her now—she means well. She’s been taking Bridget to the shops every day, and Bridget’s really taken a liking to her. So all in all, everything is good here._

_I know you probably want to leave this discussion in the past, so I won’t say too much, but let me say this: I want you to be happy, too, Ell. And whether you find that happiness on your own or with someone else’s help doesn’t matter to me, but please, don’t turn away from something good because you have doubts. I would see you happy if I can. I don’t doubt he would say the same._

_With love,_

_Avery_

* * *

It’s late when Ellinor and Vivienne return to Skyhold.

They come home without warning, tired, weary, and Ellinor alone is at fault for not sending word of their hastened journey home but she can’t say she’s sorry for the lack of a welcoming party, the normal fanfare upon the Inquisitor’s arrival at the keep.

It’s only a quick murmured _goodnight_ when they part at the great staircase up to the hall, and Vivienne doesn’t ask where Ellinor is off to. Truthfully, she supposes she knows. But a soft light flickers from Cullen’s tower and she knows that there is no turning back, no escape, and her heartbeat quickens even as she climbs the battlements and raises her knuckles to his door.

“Come in.”

She’s known him long enough to know that a grunted _come in_ is a sign of a good day, and silence or a soft _I’m not to be disturbed_ are signs of much worse. With some relief— _only some_ —she pushes the door open quietly to find him among his usual pile of work on his desk, several books open, a tray empty but for a few crumbs of bread sitting atop the corner.

_He’s doing better_.

There are plenty of things she could start with, so much she wants to say to him.

“Hi,” is all she manages, and his eyes snap up.

“Ellinor! I didn’t know...I mean, you weren’t due back for another two days,” he says breathlessly, and even his voice after so many days away feels warm, feels safe. He doesn’t get up. Not this time. He lingers at his desk just as she waits just past the doorway, the faint flicker of candlelight from his shelves not quite reaching her in the dark, but still she stands, hesitant, unsure. Quiet. “Ellinor?”

“I wanted to come back sooner,” she says sheepishly. “We made good timing passing around the Emprise du Lion and I’m sure you’ll hear plenty of complaints from Vivienne if you ask her and—”

“I wouldn’t,” he interrupts her. “That is...I mean, I’m only glad you’re back.”

Her heart flutters in her chest. “So am I,” she says softly, and finally, she steps forward, feet aching with each step, with exhaustion, as she makes her way toward him.

He does nothing to hide the sharp breath he takes, the way his expression darkens at her appearance. She knows how she looks. Worn. Worse for wear, the jacket she’d left in torn at her shoulder and her braid only barely in place, her face streaked with dirt and likely dried blood still from a close bandit encounter on their return journey.

“You’ve been hurt,” he blurts.

She nods wordlessly, _it’s not bad_ , she thinks, raising her fingertips to the thin red cut lining the usually smooth skin on her cheekbone, below her eye, surrounded in dust from travel, still unwashed. She grimaces when she touches it; _he saw that, too_ —but she’d all but forgotten that it’s still raw, swollen. Painful.

“It’s not bad,” she says, out loud this time, _a lie and he knows it_. She tears her eyes from his. She can’t take the stern look on his face, the way his lips pull into a tight frown. “Just from a few common highwaymen along the base of the Frostbacks. Nothing Vivienne and I couldn’t handle most of the time, and...it’s my fault, anyway. We were tired. I pushed too hard on the journey back. We didn’t notice them until it was…” She shrugs. “Well. You can go ahead and say ‘I told you so.’”

It’s an attempt at a joke, if a wry one. He doesn’t laugh.

“What did the healers say?” he demands, but she shakes her head, eyes downcast, scuffing the floorboards with the toe of her boot.

“I haven’t see the healers. We only just got in.”

He squeezes his eyes shut and brings his fingers to pinch the bridge of his nose—a tick she’s noticed in him, always out of frustration. “Ellinor, that’s just—”

“Reckless?” she asks him, the hint of a sad smile ghosting across her lips. “I wanted to come here.”

_I wanted to see you_ , she thinks, and _I wanted to talk_ and _I missed you_ but the way he rises slowly from his chair, brows knit, _still upset_ makes her second-guess her motivations, and when he rounds the corner of his desk she looks downward again, keeps still until his footfalls end beside her and he stops, waits.

“Let me look at that,” he says finally, gesturing toward his desk.

Her eyes snap up immediately, face reddening. “You don’t have to—I mean, I could have—”

“You didn’t, though,” he interrupts her, and as soon as the words leave his mouth, his eyes soften, flicker down once before returning to her. _He doesn’t mean to sound brash_. “It needs to be cleaned,” he says, quieter this time. “You’re lucky if it’s not infected already.” He points to his desk again, and reluctantly, she pulls herself atop the surface, crossing her ankles as her feet dangle above the floor, placing her hands in her lap.

He rummages in the cabinets behind his desk until he finds what he’s looking for—a healing salve, one of many he might have used in Kirkwall, long before deskwork and drills were the focus of his daily work and instead he’d spent long days on the Wounded Coast searching for apostates and templars and all other sorts of trouble, at least according to what he’s told her. He’s no healer and yet she trusts him when he pours a clear stream of water into a basin as she’d done for him, dips a clean cloth in before returning to her.

“Hold still,” he whispers, taking her chin between his thumb and his forefinger, and if he hears her breath catch in her throat, he doesn’t make any show of it. She barely has it in her power to _breathe_ when he’s so close like this, much less move about.

He won’t meet her eyes.

He takes his time as he cleans the dirt and blood from her face, soft with his motions, quiet, concentrating on his work and moving with care when he reaches the cut on her cheek. She winces, once, when he presses the cloth too hard, and he mutters something soft, incomprehensible. She thinks he says _I’m sorry_.

When he’s finished cleaning the wound, he reaches for the little jar of healing salve, soft eyes flickering over to hers just once, apologetically. “This will sting,” he warns her this time. _That’s all right._ He swipes the salve just once over the cut, and as he’d said, the sharp pain sears through her quickly, making her eyes water, and again he whispers _I’m sorry_ as though any harm done to her was dealt by his own hand.

_You have nothing to be sorry for._

“There,” he murmurs, cupping her jaw with one hand now, tilting her face up just enough as though to inspect his work, to ensure it’s met his standards. She says nothing. She only looks up at him, closes her eyes slowly when his thumb brushes across her cheek—of its own accord, seemingly, though she wishes otherwise. And when he finally straightens, when his palm nearly leaves the warmth of her cheek, she stops him, covers his hand with her own, holds it to her.

_Don’t go. Not again._

“Cullen,” she whispers.

“Ellinor.”

She opens her eyes again, dark and shining and pleading all at once. “Why did you do that?”

She waits for him to say _because you were hurt_ or _because you didn’t see a healer_ , but he doesn’t, and under the warm glow of the candlelight, she thinks his face turns paler.

“Do you need me to tell you?”

Her heart feels heavy in her chest.

_I wish I didn’t_.

She says nothing, and he pulls his hand from hers now, pulls _himself_ from her, steps back, paces away from his desk.

_Don’t go._

“I meant what I said before,” he begins, voice quiet, trying to suppress the tremor in his tone. “I don’t want anything from you. Maker knows you have enough to deal with without adding me to the list.”

“Cullen…”

“And I’m sorry, for kissing you.” When he looks back at her, she knows he sees it in her eyes—the sadness, the fear she’s stopped trying to hide from him now. He shakes his head. “No...I’m not sorry for kissing you. I’m sorry for leaving after I did. And for not—not speaking to you about it, or telling you what I felt. I only thought that you should...I just wanted you to know,” he says, swallowing, voice lowered to a near whisper now. “That I’d meant what I said when I told you that I care for you.”

She’s so still. Only listening, only blinking as though his words are a dream but _he means it_.

“What I should have told you,” he continues, swallowing back the lump in his throat. “Is that when you’re hurting, or you’re upset, or you’re afraid, I need you to know that…” He takes a deep breath. “...that I love you, Ellinor, and that you never need to pretend around me, or be strong around me, or hide it from me because none of that matters. Not to me. I have no...conditions, or expectations of my own. I want nothing from you. I have so little to offer you myself, but…” He swallows again. “But if you would have me, then I would love you, endlessly. With all that I have.”

There’s no hesitation in his words. He speaks without holding back, without reservation, and her breath feels short and her fingers numb and when he’s finished, when he’s left with no more words to say and his hands shake—not from withdrawal, she suspects, _not this time_ , she looks back at him, heart pounding, eyes wide.

“I would.”

“You...what?”

“I would have you,” she breathes, and he looks into her, eyes nearly disbelieving. She knows the feeling well. “I might have...I should have said so before, only I was afraid that…” She shakes her head, words failing her. “I don’t know. That it couldn’t he real, maybe.”

Where he’d withdrawn from her before, now he steps forward; where he couldn’t meet her eyes, now he looks into them, searching. _Close_. His body is warm close to hers, hands still shaking from nerves when he places them on either side of her upon his desk.

“It was always real for me,” he says quietly, and she nods.

“I know.”

_I know now_.

The tips of their noses brush against each other when he leans into her, just a whisper of a touch but the chills it sends down her spine are electric and she wants more, needs more.

“And I want _you_ to know,” she continues, voice barely even a whisper now, lips ghosting past his when she speaks and _he’s so close_ , “that I also care for—”

She never gets to finish.

He presses his lips to her, soft, sweet, long, it doesn’t matter if he didn’t hear her say it because he knows.

She can feel it in the taste of his kiss, in the gentle exhale of breath that sends goosebumps over her skin.

_He knows_.

He doesn’t apologize this time when he breaks away, only stops to catch his breath, to look upon her again with honey eyes and swollen lips.

“I also care for you,” she finishes, breathless.

_I love you._

He nods.

_He knows._

And when she closes her eyes, tilts her head up to meet him, all that she feels is his forehead just meeting her own and his fingertips beneath her chin before she loses all else to the feeling of his lips capturing hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (to be continued)


	31. Close

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nsfw.
> 
> note that it's not written to be overtly smutty or pornographic--it's written to show intimacy and vulnerability. but nsfw nonetheless.

_I love you._

Truthfully, she never thought a kiss could taste so sweet. It’s not her first. It’s _hardly_ her first; she could count the men on her fingers who’ve made to kiss her before, only the boldest and most brazen succeeding. A templar once, long ago, a merchant’s son, a nobleman. Others still, all asserting their desires over her, of her, leaving when they’ve taken what they can from her, be it notoriety, rank, or even only a kiss. _Not Cullen_.

When Cullen kisses her, he is neither bold nor brazen. He asks for nothing. He wouldn’t know where to begin if he wanted. But _oh, he hopes for much._

She has to push his books back, backward when he leans into her, feels the parchment slipping and crinkling beneath her as she slides back, inch by inch, a quill spattering ink upon her sleeve when she nudges it with the palm of her hand before falling carelessly to the floor but it doesn’t matter. Nothing else, it seems to her in this moment, matters. Only him.

He kisses her lips mostly, her name falling in whispers from his tongue, once, twice, and again between each taste of her, and when she reaches out, brushes her fingers over the fabric of his shirt and whispers his name in return, he tenses.

“Cullen.”

He’s nervous. She can feel it in the way his fingers reach for her hair but retreat after a moment, and the way his kisses are at once full of desire and uncertainty. He leans into her, he pulls back. He brushes his nose against hers, he turns away—just enough to kiss her the corner of her mouth, her jaw.

 _He’s nervous_ , and _he doesn’t want me to know._

“What is it?” she breathes, turning her cheek when he leans in to kiss her lips again, and he stops, looks back at her with wide eyes and reddening ears.

“N-nothing,” he says quickly, averting his eyes. “Nothing, it’s just...”

She brushes a couple of strands of hair already fallen from he braid out of her eyes, catching her breath, pulling her hands from him and tilting back on her palms when he straightens. “We can stop,” she says cautiously, if reluctantly. “Kissing, I mean.”

“No! I mean,” he stammers, “I don’t want to stop kissing you.” He’s firm when he shakes his head, and she can’t help but smile.

_Neither do I._

“It’s just...new,” he clarifies, voice steadier with each word. “That’s all.”

She nods. “It _is_ new.” She searches his face for any indication of discomfort, hesitation. She finds none. His eyes are wide, dark. _Wanting_. And when he leans in to kiss her again, she lets him. And when she closes her eyes, it’s only him—soft lips, warm breath, elfroot and elderflower, strength and calm, and everything is Cullen, and Cullen is everything.

She feels him grow bolder when he pushes his lips harder into hers, responds to her short breaths and the way she tugs the fabric of his shirt in one trembling fist by leaning further over his desk until he’s got one knee up, tearing the parchment beneath her thigh. Seconds later, the other follows, tipping an inkwell to the floor. It shatters.

He doesn’t seem to notice.

And all at once he’s above her, over her, and one of them pushes the remaining books off the desk—she’s not sure who—and the floor smells of a wine whose bottle met the same fate as the inkwell before it and any papers not sent off the edge are without question crumpled or torn or quite likely both beneath her but she can hardly bring herself to care when he’s kissing her like _that_ and his fingers are tangled in her hair, pulling it loose from its braid without second guessing himself, and it seems that only moments before she told him she cared for him and now his teeth pull gently at her throat and his hips press tentatively to her thigh and she feels the heat and the wetness and the anticipation pooling in between her legs and she _sighs._

“Ellinor,” he breathes against her neck. “I love you.”

She draws one hand against the stubble on his cheek as they breathe together, labored but quiet and soft. _He loves you_ , she thinks, and _he’s waiting._ He won’t ask for more until she gives it. She traces her finger under his chin, over his swollen lips.

“Show me?” she manages.

It’s the last bit of encouragement he needs, the last whispered words of affirmation that push him over the edge, and when he kisses her next it’s with determination, with abandon. When he fumbles with the laces on his trousers it’s with urgency, when she reaches for the laces on hers, it’s with haste. “I love you,” he whispers again, and she won’t tell him but there’s no amount of times she could hear it that could be too many, and she kisses him back with care, with yearning, and her mouth is still on his when his fingertips brush over the soft flat of her belly beneath the hem of her shirt, trail downward over her hipbone, graze the sensitive spots along her inner thighs.

“Cullen,” she breathes, almost a plea, they’ll have time later, _every day_ and _any day_ but this is _now_ and he knows. _He knows_.

“I love you,” he tells her again, and his head dips down when he kisses her neck, and she wraps her legs around him when he pushes into her slowly, with care.

_He knows._

* * *

_Dear Cullen,_

_You? In Orlais? I have to say I’m surprised. I hope your business there was brief enough, or that you visited for leisure rather than work. I know you've never seemed very fond of the country._

_We hear only good news of the Inquisition’s works, and furthermore of your Inquisitor herself. She seems to be a marvelous woman. You’ll have to tell me about her soon._

_My heart was full when I read your letter, however brief. The others say hello, and that they miss you._

_We all do._

_With love,_

_Mia_

* * *

He asks her, afterward, while they’re still out of breath and he lies half beside her and half leaning against her on his desk, if she’d like to come upstairs. No sooner do the words leave his mouth than he qualifies them: _that is, if you’d like_ and _I didn’t know whether…_ and _I wasn’t sure, but_ — and she cuts him off instantly, taking his face in her still-trembling hands and pulling him in to kiss him.

“Yes,” is her simple answer, no conditions, no questions. Just _yes._ They only take a few more minutes before he slides his legs back over the side of the desk and onto the floor, offering his hand to her once she’s gotten her bearings.

“After you,” he murmurs, gesturing to the ladder leading up to his quarters, shy, _hesitant_ , as if they hadn’t just confessed their love, as if he hadn’t laid claim to her just moments before. He mutters something else sounding a bit like _not quiet as nice your quarters, I imagine_ but she brushes it off, grips the wooden rungs of the ladder before her, and begins her ascent.

The first thing she notices when she reaches the top is the chill in the air.

The room is sparse—even more so than his office downstairs, though she can’t say she’s surprised. A simple bed with a thin coverlet stands against one wall, along with a makeshift side table that looks to be merely a barrel covered in cloth. Along the opposite wall, or at least, the parts of the wall without entire floorboards missing and opening down to the first floor below, is only a large trunk and an armor stand. Nothing else. But perhaps the most prominent feature is the gaping hole in his ceiling baring the deep blue of the night sky, inviting the vast expanse of starlight and moonlight alike down into his bedroom.

“Cullen,” she says breathlessly, and when she turns to look for him, only just now meeting her at the top of his ladder, she can see the blush crawling over up his neck, his cheekbones. _He’s ashamed_ she thinks first and then _no, he misunderstands._

“Yes, I—” he stammers, looking from her to the ceiling and back to her, oblivious to the growing smile on her face, the sense of wonder in her eyes. “It’s foolish, I know—”

“Cullen.”

His hand returns to the back of his neck the moment he’s hoisted himself up from the ladder to stand on the floor. “I imagine you’re wondering why it hasn’t been repaired, only I...I actually prefer—”

When he finally manages to look up from his feet to meet her eyes, finally stops with his mumbled apologies she’d neither asked for nor expected, it’s not judgement or distaste or repulsion on her face. She _grins_. “You can see the stars from here!” she whispers, awestruck, and the glow on her face may very well be infectious. He blushes first—more than he had been already, if it’s possible, but moments later he’s smiling back, sheepish. _Happy_.

“Yes,” he says, nodding slowly first, then firm. “Yes, you can. Um. You don’t mind it, then?”

She beams. “I love it.”

She flashes him one more reassuring smile before making her way to his bed, perching on her knees upon the mattress, gazing upward to the stars. It’s euphoric. _She’s_ euphoric. _He loves you_ and _I love you too_ and there are stars and for now, for tonight, all her fears and her doubts seem far away. Unimportant. But when she looks back up at him with an inviting smile, he looks down, reddening.

_He’s worried._

She bites her lip.

In his office, he’d been hungry, eager. Here, in his own bedroom, he’s shy. Uncertain. She can read it all over his face, the way he diverts his eyes when she reaches for the buttons on her shirt, the way his face flush deepens when she pushes back on his covers, back to the headboard.

“Cullen,” she says softly. “If you don’t want—”

“I do,” he cuts her off. Quickly. Too quickly.

“Come here.”

He doesn’t wait for her to ask twice. He crawls to her, on hands and knees, atop his mattress, kneeling before her as he would before the altar of Andraste herself.

“I don’t—” he stammers. “I haven’t...I mean, before...downstairs...I’d never—”

_Oh._

She feels foolish for not noticing, not knowing, and yet everything had been fast, urgent.

_It’s not anymore._

“That’s okay,” she says softly, sitting back against the headboard. He turns away from her, red as ever, and she cups his cheek, turning him back to look at her. “If you don’t want to—“

“No,” he says, firmly, meeting her gaze again, gold into deep brown, “no, I do, I just...I don’t know...”

“I’ll show you,” she offers, and he nods, exhaling deeply. “Would that be okay?”

He nods again.

“Can I take your hands?” she asks him.

He offers them without hesitation.

She leans back on the pillow behind her, kissing his knuckles on one hand first, then the second, even as his fingers shake just so with nerves, with uncertainty. “Stop me if you like,” she murmurs, and she places them over the neckline of her shirt, letting his fingers graze the buttons she’s still yet to undo.

_He knows._

With painstaking care, he unfastens each one, working slowly, diligently. She sees his shoulders tense, hears his breath hitch when he pulls the fabric open, revealing the long, deep scar tissue running from her ribcage across her stomach.

“You’ve seen it look worse,” she says softly, shrugging the shirt off her shoulders and unfastening her breastband afterward.

“From Haven,” he replies, nodding, looking away quickly when first tosses the cloth aside, baring her breasts to him. “Corypheus’ dragon.”

“Mmhm.”

“Can I—” he starts, eyes wandering back over her, over smooth skin and scar tissue alike. “I mean—”

“Yes.”

Still, she shivers when his rough fingertips roam over her bare skin—first tracing up from her waist, then over her stomach, along her scar until he lowers his lips to the jagged line, uneven, kisses it with a gentleness and care he hadn’t shown earlier before moving upward, kissing the undersides of her breasts, the dip of the valley between them, running curious fingers over them and she gasps once when he’s _just_ rougher than she’d expected.

“I’m sorry,” he says quickly and she _giggles_ , she doesn’t mean to embarrass him but he’s so careful, so well intended.

“Don’t be sorry,” she whispers, pulling him down to her to kiss him again. She waits for him to nod a short _yes_ before she unlaces his shirt in return, coaxing him to raise his arms up so she can pulls it over his head and when she pulls away from his kiss, her smile disappears.

_He’s self-conscious._

“Cullen?” she asks him, softly, sitting back against the cushions, giving him space.

He crosses his arms over his chest, shifts where he kneels before her, but even behind his arms, she can see. Pale skin flecked with white, like hers, and deep brown, and red in places, some long, thin, some jagged like her own, some the imprints of chainmail, a few links at at time, burned long ago into the skin, some in bursts like firelight, like rain—scars only magic can make.

“They’re from Ferelden,” he stammers, crossing his arms over his chest and _oh, Cullen._ “And from Kirkwall. And—”

“You don’t need to explain if you don’t want to,” she murmurs, raising her own arms to him, showing her forearms, her wrists. He’s seen them before.

He hasn’t looked closely.

“What’s this?” he whispers, seeing them now, taking her wrists in his hands and pulling them closer.

“Fire magic,” she says simply. The scars are paler, older than most of his, but she can see a few that they match. “Avery. The night he got sent to the Circle.” His eyes widen, and she adds, “An accident.”

“I didn’t know.”

She shrugs it off. “You don’t need to explain,” she repeats instead. “But you don’t need to hide, either.”

He nods. “One day,” he says softly. “One day, I will. But...there’s a lot to say, and it’s not all…”

She shakes her head, silencing him. “It’s never chased me away from you,” she breathes. “It _won’t_ chase me away,” she whispers, a promise, a _vow_ , and she presses her forehead to his, “not ever.”

“Not ever,” he repeats.

When he kisses her next, it’s with understanding, with care. She slides his trousers off of him easily and lets him remove her own, and their smallclothes afterward, pausing every so often just to press her lips to his, breathe him in, warmth and elderflower and strength all at once, run her fingers through his hair slowly, gently, enjoy the way his eyes close comfortably each time she does. He kisses her blissfully then, almost lazily. When she takes his hand again and guides it between her thighs, his kisses are calculated, direct.

_He’s paying attention._

“Here,” she whispers, applying only a bit of pressure, showing him the pace before letting go of his fingers. He’s uncertain, unpracticed, but she nods when he gets it right, kisses him reassuringly, slowly, meeting his movements with her hips until she can feel the heat and the tension building within her and she takes his hand again, shaking her head.

“You’ve done this before,” he whispers when she breaks away. It’s not a question. He knows. _He doubts himself, still._

And so she nods, sliding one leg over him and pulling herself into a sitting position, leaving him lying right beneath her, catching her breath.

“Yes,” she says, and then clarifies. “Twice. But they were different.”

She can see him turn red even when her shadow blocks the faint moonlight pouring over his bed, and he looks away, _not like that_ , she thinks, but he swallows, nervous.

“I would imagine so,” he mumbles, “I don’t—“

But she presses a finger to his lips, leans down, replaces it with a kiss. “You told me you loved me,” she murmurs into his mouth.

“I do,” he replies.

She likes the feeling of his blush under her fingers when she touches his cheek.

“That makes it different.”

She runs her hands now over the tawny hair on his chest, over smooth skin and scars alike, before she leans forward, kissing him, sliding onto him in one quick motion and in an instant he’s pulled her into him, her breasts, her belly flush with his own body.

He’d taken her downstairs in his office before, but now, _now_ , they make love.

His lips, his mouth are hot on her neck when she rolls her hips into him, slow, careful, and she whispers words of affection into his ear, things she never thought she’d admit to anyone, let alone Cullen— _I missed you_ and _I want you_ and _I need you_ and just his name, just _Cullen_ , a whisper between hurried breaths as her nails trail over his scalp and down his neck and it’s not long before she feels his fingers dig hard into her waist, grip her tightly as he buries his nose in her shoulder.

“Ellinor,” he gasps, “I... _fuck_ , Lin, I...”

“ _Cullen_ ,” she breathes, pressing her nails into his shoulderblades until she finds her own release, leaving her breathless, leaving them spent as she collapses into his arms, sated.

_Loved._

She feels her cheeks redden when she catches her breath, thinks on his words—a welcome blush, a small smile pulling at her lips.

_Lin._

“What?”

“What?” he repeats, looking at her, puzzled, a thin line of worry crossing his brow.

She laughs. “What did you call me?”

“I mean, I meant...Ellinor,” he says, flushing, pushing his lips to hers once more in an attempt to divert her attention.

“No,” she murmurs into his kisses, and he pulls back, breathless, staring in wonder back to her.

“Lin?”

She beams back at him and brushes her fingers through his curly hair, and he closes his eyes like before, like he’s never been touched like this, like no one has ever been so patient with him, so kind, and she kisses him again, soft, slow, happy, loved, pulling away finally if only to grant him a smile as bright as the moonlight around them.

“Please don’t go,” he says quickly before turning red, as though his mouth moved too fast for his thoughts. “That is, I mean, if you’d like to stay...”

And her lips are on his again, not hungry like before, but soft like velvet, slow like honey.

“I’d like to.”

He smiles.

She grins.

And when the cool night breezes rushes in through the roof and she giggles _it’s chilly_ , he retrieves a shirt from his trunk, an extra blanket along with it, and they lie together under the soft light of the stars, murmuring quietly to one another about anything and everything and often nothing at all, stopping only sometimes for a kiss or a short sigh or finally when Ellinor can hardly keep her eyes open anymore, Cullen kisses her one last time, _shh, get some sleep_.

The last thing she feels is his body curled around her, his breath slow and warm in her hair.

She feels safe.

* * *

_Mia,_

_Marvelous indeed._

_~~With love, Cull~~ _

_I am well. I hope you all are also._

_With love, Cullen_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in light of my two recent promotions (one expected, the next a pleasant surprise--i'm a managing editor now!!), i am taking vacation time from work to travel next week. i also think that this would be a good time for me to take a mental health week from this fic in order to rest, regroup, and work on side projects if time/energy allows. things have been rough for me and i think a week off will be good, so with that, i will see you all on july 9 (or otherwise the very early hours of july 10)!!


	32. Secrets Kept

He’s learning a lot about Ellinor Trevelyan.

He learned the night before that she has the most infectious, most beautiful smile in all of Thedas, and that he can see it whenever he likes if he only tells her how much he loves her. He’d learned then also that she’s ticklish on her left side, just around her waist, earning him a giggled _stop it!_ on his first offense and a whack in the head for his second. He never made a third attempt. He’d learned that she closes her eyes if he kisses her throat in the right spot—just under her earlobe—and that she likes to cuddle, and that she’d probably rather die than admit she’s ready to go to sleep for the night but if he pulls her close to him and whispers in her ear and strokes her hair slowly enough, she’ll stop trying to fight the exhaustion that’s caught up to her after days of being on the road away from home.

He’d always known he’d never been in love before. He learns now for certain that he’ll never feel this way about anyone else. He’ll never _want_ to.

And he learns, finally and perhaps most importantly, that she is not a morning person. When the bright morning sunlight peeks into his bedroom through the roof, the intruding rays chase her inch by inch into his arms, and she burrows her nose into his chest, away from the light, away from any sign the night they’d shared could be turning into morning.

“Good morning,” he says softly, brushing her hair from her face. He can’t think of a time he’s woken up so late in the morning, but there is nothing— _nothing_ —that could could make him want to leave his bed now. She’s beautiful like this, tanned skin peeking out from his own shirt that she wore, hair tangled and still a bit curled from yesterday’s braid, groggy and grumpy and clutching to any last remnants of sleep. She’s _here_ , she’s _with him_ , she _stayed_ , and she’s _real_.

“Shhhhh,” she mumbles, pulling away from the rumble of his voice. She presses her brow to the mattress just underneath his arm, blocking the sunlight away, and he can feel her crinkle her nose against him, a perfect pout to match the uncontrollable beaming on his own face.

“Can I—”

“Shh.”

He chuckles. “I was just wondering if I could kiss you,” he says, lowering his voice to a whisper.

Her eyes stay closed but he feels her frown turn to a smile. He’d give anything in the world to bottle her happiness up now and hold onto it forever. She nods, _permission granted_ , and he lowers his lips to her temple, a soft kiss there, one to her forehead, one to the cut below her eye— _it’s healing nicely_ —and another to the spot in her hair, crimped and messy from sleep. When he leans in again, she slides one hand out from beneath the covers up his chest, his neck, to his jaw, her palm smooth and warm against it as she guides him to her lips instead.

She opens her eyes at last when he kisses her mouth, wide and bright and almost unbelieving.

“Good morning,” he whispers again, apprehensive this time, at least until she takes him with both hands and looks at him, soft and timid and... _affectionate_ , he guesses.

He’s proven right when she kisses him again, lazy fingers trailing past his ears and into his hair—no doubt rumpled and unruly, yet for once in his life he can’t seem to care—nails pressing lightly into his scalp when she kisses him back, and she tastes like sleep, he’s sure he does too, and he loves it.

“Good morning,” she murmurs softly, smiling back at him, still blinking slowly like a kitten waking from a nap in the sun.

_But Maker, how could I be so lucky?_

A slow yawn and she’s curled into him again, another smile tugging at the corners of her mouth when he runs his fingers through her hair, and he grins.

“Ellinor,” he says lazily.

“Mm?”

But he shrugs, he’s nothing more to say, only wanted to hear her name from his own lips again as though he’s only just learned it. He looks down at her. “Lin.”

Now _she’s_ grinning. “What?” she demands, tone all play and no bite, no matter how hard she’s trying to hide her smile.

“Nothing,” he replies quickly, and there’s laughter in her eyes when she settles back into him. “It’s only…” He sobers now, smile softening. “You said once—at Halamshiral—that _I’m_ the one who’s softer than I seemed.”

Her eyes are bright when she looks back at him. “Well, you are.”

“I could say the same for you.”

She stares at him for a moment before her smile fades away, replaced instead with a shyness she hides by pressing her face once more into his chest. “No,” she mumbles, her voice reverberating against him, and he laughs.

“Yes, you are,” he insists. “You’re doing it right now.”

“I’m not doing anything.” She rolls over onto her back, tucking her nose into the crook of her arm.

He supposes he’ll let it go. _But it’s true_ , and he knows it, and he loves her for it.

When she deems herself safe to speak again, she scrunches her nose, stretches her arms until her knuckles graze the old wooden headboard behind them. “What time is it?”

“Late—”

“—seems early,” she says simultaneously, answering her own question, and he laughs.

“Do you always wake so late in the morning?” he asks her, stretching himself, and his heart flutters when he straightens his legs and brushes up against hers. “I, um. Can’t imagine Josephine would allow it.”

“She doesn’t.” She tucks her arms behind her head and sighs blissfully, a mischievous smile playing at her lips as she gazes up through his roof at the sunshine and clouds overhead. “She’d drag me out of bed at dawn if she didn’t think I’d make a fuss. And by ‘fuss,’ I mean I may or may not have thrown pillows at her before to try and get her to leave.”

The thought of someone throwing anything at Josephine Montilyet would horrify him any other time, but it’s Ellinor, and somehow the mental image of her, small and in pajamas and otherwise defenseless, hurling cushions at their ambassador, makes him laugh.

“She usually sends Sera in her place,” she continues, and he snorts. “She’s much less easily deterred.”

“I imagine she’d only throw the pillow right back.”

“You imagine correctly,” she laughs, rolling over and resting her head on his shoulder.

_Lucky doesn’t begin to cover it._

“But,” she says, tracing her finger over his still-bare chest, over unexplained scars and the light hair growing down towards his belly, “as far as I know, Josephine doesn’t even know that I’m back from Val Royeaux. So she couldn’t possibly—”

Whatever she says next is drowned out by a crash from below them—the great oak door of his office, or one of them, anyway, thrown back until it hits the stone wall behind it, and heavy boots and clanking armor and labored breathing and Ellinor claps her hand over her mouth and—

_Andraste’s bloody—_

“Commander, ser, I...oh my. What in the void happened…”

_The desk,_ he thinks, and he lets out a voiceless sigh, pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose. Books everywhere, no doubt, spilled ink and spilled wine and ink and papers he hadn’t given a rat’s ass about the night before when he’d clambered up his ladder after Ellinor but now—

“H-hello? Is anyone…Commander? Hello? I—”

“Maker’s breath!” Cullen shouts, throwing the covers off him at last and getting out of bed. Ellinor’s gone from horrified to barely holding back a smile to now utterly humored, knees hugged into her chest as she hides her silent laughter from him. It’s all he can do to yank on yesterdays pants before stomping to the opening by the ladder and peering down, hands in fists at his sides.

He’s not sure if he’s ever seen a more fearful face peer back at him. Down below—standing helplessly among broken glass, scattered papers—is a recruit no more than a week into his training, one whose name escapes him if he’d ever known it in the first place, looking more like a child who’s wet himself than a soldier of the Inquisition, gloved hands clasped as he looks back up toward Cullen with trembling lips and pale cheeks.

“Well?” Cullen demands.

“N-nothing—I—ser, I only—I’m sorry, ser, it’s just, we’ve been in the yard waiting for the morning drills and no one was certain where you were and then Lady Montilyet came looking for you and when we said we hadn’t seen you she asked if one of us would go to check your office and so I...so I volunteered, and then I got here and everything...that is, your office…” He gestures helplessly around him, and Cullen crosses his arms over his chest.

_Fool_ , he thinks, though he can’t decide if the name is more fitting for himself or for his recruit.

“It was a bit of wind,” he says tersely, and out of the corner of his eye, he sees Ellinor all but fall over onto her side with giggles.

“W-wind, ser?” the recruit repears, glancing and the utter mess around him.

“And you can tell Lady Montilyet that I will see her shortly,” Cullen continues, disregarding the question. “You are dismissed.”

“But, ser—”

“Do not make me say it again, recruit,” he growls, and the young man scrambles back out the door, slipping not once but twice on fallen papers but traveling at lightning speed nonetheless.

“You’re _awful_ ,” Ellinor says in awe, a disbelieving smile only just visible behind the hands still pressed over the lower half of her face, and he groans. Only seconds back with just her and his ears are already turning warm, and he shakes his head silently, crossing the room to his trunk to rummage around for clean pants—not just the ones from yesterday—and rub the last bits of sleep from his eyes.

_Long day ahead,_ he thinks, but even now he can’t be upset. Not when she still sits cross-legged atop his bed, his shirt falling loose from her shoulders, with a smile that could light up his entire office on her lips.

He dresses quickly, pants and shirt and finally his armor, all while trying to focus on the day’s upcoming tasks rather than on the woman sitting in his bed with no apparent intentions of getting out of it. “And what do you plan on doing for the rest of the morning?” he asks her, amused as he scoops a bit of pomade onto his fingers and tugs his hair into place with a comb. When he turns around, she shrugs.

“Sleep more, maybe,” she says pleasantly, and he can’t blame her. She made nearly double time coming home from Orlais and if it were up to him he’d let her sleep the day away, if it’s what she wanted.

Unfortunately, it’s not up to him.

He’s about to begin some sort of spiel on how she can stay as long as she likes, _you’re welcome here whenever you want_ and _I won’t tell a soul you’re up here_ and _you’re secret’s safe with me_ when the door below them opens again, shutting quickly behind the unseen entrant.

“You’ve _got_ to be kidding m—”

“Commander?”

_Josephine._

This time, Ellinor _does_ look a bit horrified. For real.

“Oh _Cullen_!” the ambassador exclaims. “What—how—?”

“Josephine!” he stammers, shooting Ellinor an apologetic glance before scrambling down his ladder to find the ambassador at a loss for words, hands over her mouth in shock at the state of his office. The recruit he could scare away easily. With Josephine, he’s embarrassed, if not a little ashamed. “It was just an...accident,” he says hurriedly. “Nothing I can’t get straightened out right away. Soon. I can send for someone now, actually and…” He trails off, looking for anything else to go off, but Josephine only shakes her head. “Um. I was going to come and find you soon. I heard you were...that is, is there something I can do for you?”

She looks from his desk to him and back again. “Well,” she says, a bit calmer than before because _that’s the magic of Josephine_ , “yes. I was wondering—I saw that Vivienne had returned, and she told me that Ellinor had returned with her.”

He swallows, scratching the back of his neck.

“But it appears that Ellinor is not in her quarters. Or rather, it appears that Ellinor may not have been in her quarters at all since she returned. I checked with Sera at the Herald’s Rest already, but she has not seen her. I had hoped, perhaps, that you might know where she is?”

“Ah,” Cullen sputters, already well aware of the flush creeping up his neck. “I’m not sure that I...I mean...that is, no, I don’t…I’m not sure.”

Josephine frowns.

“She’s certainly not here,” he concludes with the sort of adamance that can only guarantee one’s lie.

He forces a smile, willing himself to disappear on the spot.

“Josie!”

_Ellinor,_ he thinks, exasperated.

“Cullen!” admonishes Josephine.

He’s about to come up with some excuse, some further lie when Ellinor descends the ladder after him, clad in his shirt still, tucked neatly into the traveling pants she’d worn the night before—not that it does anything to hide the blatant truth of everything—her “disappearance,” his awful lying, the very state of his office—from Josephine, and he watches in horror as the realization dawns on their ambassador.

When Ellinor comes to a stop by his side, brushing a strand of uncombed hair out of her face with a sort of nonchalance he _wishes_ he could muster, Josephine gapes at them.

“This,” she starts, trying as ever to remain delicate and polite in spite of the growing blush on her cheekbones. She smooths her hands over her skirts, looks desperately from Ellinor to Cullen and back, perhaps in awe and perhaps in shock. “This is. Well. Ahem. Ellinor. Or rather, Cullen, could you please excuse us for a moment?”

“But—” he sputters. “Me?”

“You.”

“But this is _my_ office!” He looks to Ellinor for backup, and yet she only offers him a shrug of her shoulders and sympathetic smile.

_Oh, but the wonders that smile can work._

“Very well,” he concedes, reddening as he fastens his surcoat around him and makes his way toward the ramparts.

“Oh!” Josephine says, stopping him before he can leave. “And also, please note that we will be holding a war council meeting directly after lunch. It appears that the Champion of Kirkwall will be arriving tomorrow, so there is much to discuss.”

Whatever smile Ellinor had worn before is gone now, replaced instead with concern. For _him_.

“Of course,” he says, perhaps a little too quickly, too calmly, _don’t worry about me,_ he thinks, eyes pleading with her before he again turns to leave. “We’ll speak then.”

* * *

_Commander,_

_I know it hasn’t been long since the Inquisitor and you and our forces have returned from Halamshiral, but the situation in Sahrnia grows dire. The red templar forces here outnumber what we had originally estimated. I cannot fully investigate with the current manpower allotted to me, but we are facing a serious threat—one we cannot afford to ignore much longer._

_Please, ser. I would not ask if it were not urgent._

_—Captain Val Rollins_

* * *

He is everything _but_ calm when they discuss the impending arrival of Aurelia Hawke, but it’s nothing he’d like to concern Ellinor with.

_My spies spotted her only days earlier approaching the Frostbacks_ , Leliana had explained, and Josephine added _two Inquisition scouts reported seeing a young woman traveling up the mountain alone_ and so he asked _did they help her?_ and she replied _she rejected their offer to help_ and he said _very well, that’s definitely Hawke, then._ No one had brought up the last war council in which they’d discussed the very same person of interest and he and Ellinor had left in furious disagreement but it seemed understood now that her plans to ally with Hawke and hear her concerns were still in place and that Cullen no longer opposed them. No one questioned why not. Josephine knew, he could see it on her face and in the way Ellinor shrugged when she arrived to the war room—the first time since that morning they’d seen each other—and though Leliana had spoken to neither of them since before Ellinor’s return, she simply knew. She knew everything.

The council passed over without much other discussion, Josephine being too busy fretting over Hawke’s accommodations and Ellinor too insistent that she’s too be late for a _meeting_ with Sera—the nature of the meeting she would not disclose—to leave room for more agenda items. He’d received word from Captain Rollins in the Emprise du Lion—news that unsettled him at best—but it hardly seemed the time to add further stress to Ellinor, or the others. _Tomorrow,_ he’d thought when they’d exited the war room one by one, himself and Ellinor the last to leave. When the others had gone, she gave him a quick peck on the cheek— _come to my quarters when your work is done tonight,_ she’d whispered before rushing off to the tavern.

_Were it so easy, Ellinor._

It’s past dark when he’s finally able to leave his office. At least this time she knows he’ll be late, he thinks, recalling the last time he’d rushed across the ramparts to meet with her at such an hour, _at least this time I can’t disappoint her_ , or so he hopes. He’s not planning on a long visit and yet he’s made sure to shed his armor before leaving his office, can’t imagine for a second anything stopping him from holding her close, feeling her in his arms, even when he’s certain he’ll have enough time for saying goodnight and little more.

He’s in such a hurry that he very nearly knocks Cassandra over as he exits his office to the battlements.

“Cullen!”

“Cassandra,” he replies, perhaps a bit too quickly, and her dark eyes flash first with surprise and then with suspicion.

“Where are you going at this time?” she asks him slowly.

He bites his lip. “What were you coming to my office for at this time?” he counters.

She frowns. “To see how you were doing,” she answers tersely, beginning to walk with him towards the main keep. “Or is it no longer acceptable for a friend to check in on a friend?”

“No!” he says hurriedly. “No, not at all. Only I—I didn’t expect you. That’s all.” He clears his throat. “I’m actually just off to, um, speak with Ellinor. Quickly. About something.”

“At this hour?” she asks, wrinkling her nose. “I take it you and Ellinor no longer arguing over how to proceed with the Champion of Kirkwall, then?”

“We weren’t—oh, right,” he stammers, and if anyone can read the blush on his face—though he assumes really _anyone_ might—it would be Cassandra. “No, it’s—things are fine now. We’ve made, ah. Reparations. Since then.”

She narrows her eyes at him. “Reparations.”

“Yes.”

Her prolonged silence says enough, and he half expects her to turn right around and walk off without any further words between them. “Was it romantic?” she asks finally.

He quite nearly chokes on his own breath.

“Was it—” he manages, “was...was…”

“Never mind. You do not need to answer that. I can only assume that with the amount of time it has taken for both of you to confront your feelings—”

“Cassandra!” he chokes. “That’s hardly...it’s not—”

“‘Not my business,’ yes,” she sighs. “Although it seems that by prolonging your pining, it really became everyone’s business.”

He opens the door to Solas’ rotunda for the both of them, and for a blessed few seconds, the conversation pauses. It’s not until they’re in the great hall—empty now, its usual inhabitants either off to bed or at the Herald’s Rest—that he turns to her and scowls.

“You’ve been reading Varric’s books again, haven’t you?”

“What?” she asks, scandalized. “I would not—”

“‘Prolonging our pining,’ honestly, Cassandra,” he mutters. “Only Varric could think up something so—”

“Well, if you are going to be judgemental about it—”

“I’m not judging,” he insists. “Only reminding you that I won’t bother you about your personal affairs if you don’t pester me about mine.”

She frowns. “Literature is hardly a ‘personal affair,’” she says dryly when they arrive at the door to Ellinor’s quarters.

“If it were not so personal, you wouldn’t get so defensive about it,” he points out, and she narrows her eyes at him.

“Very well,” she says tersely. “I will leave you alone then. Goodnight, Cullen.”

He smiles at her, in spite of her obvious annoyance. “Goodnight, Cassandra.”

The first door is easy—he’s never visited her quarters before but he knows the tower has been under construction since their arrival and that her living space was separate from the stairwell, closed off. It’s the second door that gives him pause. It’s not until he raises his fist to knock that he realizes his heartbeat is racing, his fingers trembling with nerves just in the slightest.

_Stop,_ he thinks. _It’s Ellinor._

Holding his breath, he knocks.

“It’s open,” calls a soft voice from inside, and _it’s too late to turn around now_ so he musters his courage, turns the handle, pushes the door open.

He climbs the final set of stairs to a vast space nearly twice the size of his loft and exponentially more furnished. _It’s warm_ , he notices first—there’s no draft even with the magnificent glass windows leading out to what looks like a balcony _but it’s too dark to be sure_ —and the fireplace by the staircase roars pleasantly, radiating throughout the room. But even the accents seem warm, seem soft—the stone flooring is covered almost entirely by thick rugs, one by the fire and the sofa and another by her desk and another by her bed. The furniture looks pleasant, if underused, the sofa hosting an array of books no doubt lent to her by Dorian as well as a tray of what seemed to be homemade cookies. Her desk is cherrywood—he knows because her mother had a single cherrywood jewelry box when he was little—but even the dark color is concealed mostly by items so undeniably _Ellinor_. Dried flowers and herbs stacked in bunches, everywhere, clean teacups and saucers and flasks tagged with twin and paper and _more_ books stacked together, and miscellaneous articles of clothing she’d yet to put away—the lace gloves she’d worn to Halamshiral, a wool scarf she used to wear in Haven, a crystal brooch he’d never seen her wear at all.

“Hello,” she says softly, and he turns at last to her bed, where she sits on top of the covers in a dark silk dressing gown, blue flecked with silver, like the night sky. “I nearly fell asleep,” she teases. “You took your time getting here.”

“Sorry,” he stammers. “I got...I was caught up with Cassandra. She—”

“Come sit,” she offers, patting the space next to her, and he nods.

The bed is almost impossibly soft, though he’s unsure whether it’s the mattress or the endless amount of blankets she seems to have. Either way, he nearly sinks a few inches when he sits down beside her.

“She knows,” he finishes once he’s settled. “About us, I mean. Although she’s suspected all along that...well, at least that _I_ had...feelings for you.”

“So did Josie,” Ellinor sighs, closing her book. “She always knew, when it came to...my feelings.”

“Did anyone else?” he finds himself asking, even as she leans back against her pillows and turns toward him. “Sera? Or...anyone?”

She shrugs. “Sera liked to joke about us, but I don’t think she’s ever seriously considered any...possibilities,” she says slowly. “She didn’t seem to have any ideas about it today when I saw her, so I didn’t say anything.” She bites her lip. “Why? Does anyone else know about…”

“Dorian, most likely,” he admits, and she looks relieved. “But no one else, I don’t think.”

She nods. “Good.”

“Good?”

“Oh!” She blushes. “I don’t mean...it’s only...I don’t know. It’s all so sudden, and I thought...it’s nice, to have something that’s just...ours. At least for a little while.”

_Maker, I do love her._

“I think so too,” he says softly, a smile growing on his face, and she grins.

“Then it’s ours,” she says simply. “And...Josie’s. And Cassandra’s. And Dorian’s.”

“And Leliana’s.”

She huffs a short laugh, but her smile remains. “She _does_ know everything, doesn’t she?” she muses, and he nods.

He reclines into the pillows beside her, then— _I only came to say goodnight_ but the room is warm and her bedding smells like her.

“You should stay,” she suggests, just a hint of hope in her voice as she slides under her blankets, never leaving his side, before taking his hand in her own, and she traces little patterns up and down the creases of his palm that might make him laugh if he weren’t so breathless.

He only barely manages to shake his head, _no_. “Unfortunately, it’s far easier for you to slip out of my office undetected in the morning than it is for me to creep out of your quarters and into the hordes of nobility and breakfast-goers.”

She laughs wryly, lips pulled into a disappointed smile. “I suppose it _would_ be a bit like throwing you to the wolves,” she sighs, and he laughs.

“Just a bit.” But he leans in to kiss her once anyway. Her mattress is thick, soft, her pillows heavenly, and were it not for his own fear of repercussions, he would gladly spend the night in her bed. “And anyway,” he notes, reveling in the feeling of her fingers against his, “I haven’t seen Aurelia Hawke in several years. Somehow I don’t think the best way for her to arrive is to her former Kirkwall acquaintance sleeping around with the woman she’s traveled all this way to meet.”

“‘Sleeping around’?” Ellinor repeats, her laugh a light tinkle to his ears. “Is that what this is?”

He grins. “There’s no one I would rather sleep around with—”

“Cullen!”

“I love you,” he says quickly, seriously this time. “I love you. And what I should say is that there’s no one I’d ever rather be with. No one more than you.”

Her eyes are bright with emotion as she looks back to him. “I love you, too,” she whispers, and he presses his lips to hers once more.

And when he leaves her room, blowing all of her candles out after him, he thinks to himself, _goodnight, then, my love._

* * *

_Captain,_

_A squadron of Inquisition soldiers marches for the Emprise as I write this. I will send more if I am able, but our strategies await now on the words of several agents, one of whom will be visiting Skyhold in the coming days. I am not yet sure how many, if any, I can spare, as we may need to reevaluate our positioning along Orlais and Ferelden. I will write again when I am certain._

_And I will say one more thing—do not question my understanding of urgency when it comes to red templars. I know a growing threat when I see one, and this threat in particular has grown before my eyes since long before your involvement in this Inquisition._

_—C.S.R._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a little longer than normal since it's been two weeks :)  
> also, this past week my darling friend madie ([CN7](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CN7)) commissioned [a drawing of ellinor](https://bitchesofostwick.tumblr.com/post/186120039458/blatterburystreet-first-julys-commission-done) from tumblr user [blatterburystreet](https://blatterburystreet.tumblr.com/) as a gift! i always like sharing ellinor- or AWA-related art when i can in my chapter updates, so take a look if you like!  
> ily madie and thanks again <3


	33. Hawke

A part of her hopes, both selfishly and a bit foolishly, that he might still be beside her when the steady hammer of an unknown fist knocks repeatedly at her door at what feels like the crack of dawn.

_Let them knock._

She rolls over slowly, eyes closed and stretching her legs one at a time as a cat might, before reaching her arm out beside her. Only a shearling blanket meets her wandering fingertips, only cool empty space when she ventures her foot outward beneath the sheets. A part of her falters, even when she knows he’d meant it when he said the night before that he couldn’t stay. She’d _agreed_ with him.

But still. A part of her had hoped.

He’d been there beside her when she fell asleep the night before—that much she’s sure of. They’d spoken a little more of Hawke. Not much. She could feel his nerves, his unease as they talked, and she’d made an effort to bring the conversation to something more pleasant. Their newest round of recruits, for one ( _horribly green_ , Cullen had spat, which made her laugh), Sera’s newest ideas for pranking ( _I promise we’ll avoid your desk this time_ ), and whether he had enough tea or if he’d like her to make some more (he would). He fussed over the cut on her cheek ( _it’s healing fine, Cullen_ , she’d insisted, _I promise you did a more than adequate job fixing it_ ), the state of her armor ( _if you wore a_ bit _more protection than those thin leathers…_ ), and his hair, when Ellinor had tried to loosen it from his pomade’s hold ( _but I_ like _when you wear it like this!_ and _well, I like when I wear it like_ this).

And just like the night prior, she’d defied bedtime at any cost. _Are you_ sure _you don’t want to spend the night?_ she’d asked sleepily, to which he’d answered _wanting to and being able to are not one and the same, Ellinor._ And yet he stayed, curled up to her back, over the duvet rather than beside her underneath it, as if there were some sort of propriety still to uphold between them. He stayed, at least, until she was asleep.

And sometime after, true to his word, he’d left.

She can’t say she’s very glad he did.

“Ellie!”

_Sera._

The banging on her door continues, louder, somehow, than before, and Ellinor groans. “It’s open,” she grumbles, voice scratchy with sleep as she reluctantly pulls herself into a sitting position.

“’Bout time!” the elf groans, pushing the door open and taking the stairs two at a time. “Almost barged in on you whether you were ready or not.”

“I’m a little surprised you didn’t anyway,” Ellinor admits, and Sera shrugs, flopping onto her bed unceremoniously.

“So am I,” she says, throwing her hands up above her head. “Oh,” she says as an afterthought. “Josie wants you. Champion of Kirkwall’s coming.”

Ellinor chews her lip, squinting out to the pink-skied morning outside her bedroom. “What time is it?”

Another shrug. “Dunno. Too early for champions to come knocking, though.”

* * *

They wait at the Skyhold edge of the bridge that crosses the mountain chasm like a royal family awaiting a noble visitor, and it nearly makes Ellinor sick. She can’t count the times her father had her family await a guest in the same manner, all lined up in a row—Bryony first, always, as the oldest, then Lyssa and Reilly and finally Ellinor and Avery, with Jaime and Rosalind at the end, a couple showing off their prized possessions.

It seems to be more of the same, now.

Only there’s a guard this time, a small group of Cullen’s soldiers best fit for practices of decorum and etiquette flanked at each side with a selection of Leliana’s scouts. Bull and his Chargers stand beside them though only Krem stands at attention; Blackwall is next, Warden armor polished and gleaming for Hawke’s arrival. Beside him are Dorian and Vivienne, dressed as usual, which is to say meticulously and without flaws. Cassandra stands at their side, hands folded over the pommel of her sword—a nervous tick Ellinor guesses she’s picked up from Cullen, though she can’t be sure. The Seeker’s face is severe as ever though there’s a glint of curiosity in her eyes, of anticipation. Only Cole, Sera, and Solas are not in attendance, though Ellinor assumes Cole is nearby. Solas received permission from Josephine to continue his studies in his rotunda, while Sera had come out initially only to say _tired of freezing my tits off waiting_ and return back to the keep.

Josephine, Leliana, and Ellinor—alongside Varric—stand at the head of the party.

Cullen never showed.

“He told me it was better this way,” says Josephine, a hint of disappointment in her voice. “He does not wish for there to be a scene upon the Champion’s arrival. I respect that.”

“A _scene_?” Ellinor mutters, breath puffing out before her in the chilly air—quiet possibly twenty degrees below the temperature within Skyhold’s walls.

“The Champion and Cullen did not part on the best of terms,” Leliana says simply.

“Well, I know they were hardly friends, but—”

Varric turns toward her, looking up skeptically. “Let’s just say Hawke’s not Curly’s biggest fan,” he says, drawing his index finger emphatically from his cheekbone to his lip.

_His scar,_ Ellinor thinks, paling, but no sooner does she open her mouth to ask further than a horn blares, and the Inquisition soldiers and scouts stand at attention.

“Hawke,” chuckles Varric, grinning.

From over the horizon of the bridge, a line of figures approach. Two are in Inquisition uniforms—it’s hard to see at the distance but Ellinor can’t mistake the shining armor, the mint green hoods of Cullen’s soldiers. The third is dressed only in black, an ankle-length cloak flowing behind her, like an omen of some sort. Suddenly, she’s grateful Cullen didn’t come. She’s fairly certain he’d be sick by now.

She watches as the trio grows closer in distance and in size, until the dark figure’s face is no longer a pale faraway blur but one with striking blue eyes, red lips, a red striped smudged across her nose. _She’s tall_ , she notes as they near, not nearly as tall as Cullen but certainly a few inches taller than herself. And she wears her hair plainly, a low and mangled and yet somehow fitting pitch-black ponytail that hangs to one side of her face with a casual indifference Josephine would never let Ellinor get away with.

She watches until she can hear the armor of the Inquisition soldiers clanking about with each step they take toward the keep and until Varric at last relaxes beside her, tension melting from his shoulders as a smug smile forms on his face.

She watches until the Champion of Kirkwall stands before her.

“Varric,” Hawke says plainly, tight-lipped, baring a set of thin bloodstone blades at each hip when she pulls her cloak back to cross her arms.

“Hawke,” he counters.

The bridge is so silent that Ellinor can hear the bits of ice falling into the ravine below.

“You’ve gotten shorter,” they say simultaneously.

And when Hawke grins, everyone seems to loosen up. Josephine unclasps her hands. The soldiers and scouts (and Krem, for that matter) stand at ease. And Ellinor, at last, exhales.

“Hawke,” Varric says again, this time with laughter in his voice and a sweeping gesture behind him. “The Inquisition. And Swift—that is, the Lady Ellinor Trevelyan.”

“It’s an honor to have you here,” Ellinor says kindly, nodding, and Hawke smiles curiously.

“Swift,” continues Varric, unceremoniously gesturing at the dark-haired woman beside him. “My good friend, Aurelia Hawke.”

“ _Just_ Hawke,” she insists, flashing the dwarf a glare. But she grins at Ellinor regardless, offering a leather-clad hand in greeting. “Nobody calls me by my first name.”

“I seem to know a certain elf who would disagree,” mutters Varric, and Hawke scowls at him.

“Fenris only calls my by my first name when we’re drunk, when he’s feeling uncharacteristically affectionate, or when he’s very, very upset with me.”

Ellinor raises her eyebrows, but Varric brushes her off. “I’m already on thin ice here for stretching the truth, Hawke,” he says pleasantly, “so they’re learning your real name whether you like it or not.” He points down the line of where the rest of the inner circle wait patiently, some with smiles, namely Josephine, others—or perhaps only Cassandra and Leliana—with stony faces. “And we have...Ruffles here. Nightingale and the Seeker—”

“—heard lots about you both,” Hawke chirps with an obviously fake smile.

“—Iron Lady, Sparkler, Hero, Tiny, aaaand Tiny’s friends.”

Hawke raises her eyebrows. “Well,” she says tentatively, uncrossing her arms. “I can’t wait to learn all _your_ real names down the road.”

Ellinor laughs politely.

Hawke fails to notice.

Instead, she peers through their ranks a second time, looking over their faces as though Varric had somehow forgotten someone. Or as though she’s expecting someone else. Her earlier smile turns slowly into a frown, and Ellinor shifts uncomfortably on her feet.

“Well,” Hawke says finally, cracking her knuckles. “To think I’ve come all this way only for my favorite Knight-Captain to miss my welcoming party.”

* * *

_Commander,_

_The red lyrium problems—and the red templars—persist. We have reason to believe a large portion of their supply, if not all of it, is being sourced from the Emprise du Lion. Captain Rollins has told us she’s notified you, but my units here in the Emerald Graves have suffered heavy casualties already. We’ll be needing reinforcements in the coming weeks if not sooner._

_Sincerely,_

_Sergeant Mallory Dell_

* * *

Josephine insists they have brunch first. It’s a lavish affair—one Cullen would have stayed away from regardless of their current guest—and it lasts for more courses than Ellinor can bear. How Josephine managed to coordinate such an extravagant meal in such short notice of Hawke’s arrival is beyond Ellinor, but she makes a mental note to bring Cullen some food later on. In the meantime, she’s taken to slipping bits of bacon under the table to the cat when the ambassador isn’t looking, all while Hawke recounts her travels to her and Varric. _Crestwood is a wet mess_ she says plainly before delving into details Ellinor truly doesn’t _need_ to know, such as the smell of the rain-soddened fishing villages and the way her socks haven’t been dry since she’d passed through Highever.

_If nothing else, Aurelia Hawke is honest._

But even when the brunch dwindles down, even when the majority of the inner circle has filtered out of the great hall toward the training ground and the tavern—Bull insisted on a game of Wicked Grace later; _I prefer diamondback, but all right_ , Hawke had replied—she is insistent.

“Where _is_ Cullen, anyway,” she pesters Varric, to Ellinor’s discomfort, “and what’s his problem? Does he have something against greeting old friends?”

“You’re pushing it,” Varric mutters under his breath. Even Josephine and Leliana have departed now, leaving only the three of them. “What did we say about pushing it?”

“I’m just wondering!” Hawke insists, gesturing about with her hands. “Honestly, you’d think he might have the decency to—”

“He’s been busy with work,” Ellinor says sharply. Carefully. “He’s—that is, the Inquisition’s forces are stretched thin lately. He’s likely been working all day.” She pauses for a moment, waits for the questioning look to wear off Hawke’s face. “I can take you to see him, if it’s important,” she offers.

Hawke smiles—slowly, at first, then turning to a grin. “As important as a Kirkwall reunion could be,” she says simply.

_Oh, Cullen._

It’s only minutes later that she’s standing on the battlements under the midday sun, Hawke and Varric on either side of her. She’s yet to see Cullen at all since the night before and she regrets that her first visit with him will be one like this. _You don’t know it will go bad,_ she scolds herself, but she can’t shake the feeling of unease when she lifts her fist and knocks on his door quietly.

“Yes, come in,” he calls from inside, and out of the corner of her eye Ellinor sees Hawke raise an eyebrow at Varric. As if she’s surprised. As if she thought Varric had only been fabricating Cullen’s Inquisition life all along.

_Cullen, forgive me._

She pushes the door open cautiously, and for a single fleeting moment, his eyes meet hers from his desk, and he grins.

“I’ve brought friends,” she says quickly, ushering Varric and Hawke inside. _Friends_ , she’d emphasized—a small attempt, if a weak one, to set the tone.

Immediately, Cullen’s smile fades.

She pushes the door closed, watching Hawke. Watching Cullen. Monitoring the two as if they’re unfriendly dogs meeting for the first time. Testing one another. And then—

“Long time, no see, Rutherford,” Hawke says with a wink.

Cullen can only gape at her, and for a moment, Ellinor worries he might snap.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he exhales, long and drawn out, shaking his head just once before shuffling his reports together. “Serah Hawke,” he says quietly, the formality in his voice rivaling only the uttered _Lady Trevelyan_ s of the past, the resignation rivaling only the time Sera had stuffed his training dummy with bees months earlier. “You know, the last I heard—before Varric had shared the news, that is—the last I heard, you were still in the Free Marches. Or so I thought.”

“‘Hoped,’ is more like it,” Varric coughs.

Hawke _grins_. So much so that Ellinor bites her lip. Hawke had flashed forced smiles here and there earlier, told jokes over brunch, but not since her arrival has she seen Hawke in such an agreeable state.

It’s _concerning_ , but she’s not quite sure why.

“I was!” Hawke says happily. She’s seemingly impervious to Cullen’s formality, suddenly immune to his seriousness. “And then I was in Orlais for a bit. And then I was in Ferelden—not Lothering, of course, they _still_ haven’t done anything fix that—but Denerim, Redcliffe, you know. The _nicer_ spots.” She’s just a few inches taller than Ellinor but suddenly her stature seems imposing, assertive. She flits around his office like a dragonfly—quick, sharp, energy abound, pausing only to inspect his belongings here and there until something else catches her eye, and Cullen glances expectantly at Ellinor. “You’ve really settled in here!” Hawke comments. “Good to know at least one of us has their shit together after Kirkwall.”

A little bit of her breaks. _She has no idea how far from the truth her statement is._

“And how _is_ my favorite Knight-Captain?” Hawke continues, stopping at one of his bookcases to play around with a glass paperweight. “Or is it Knight Commander? That’s what I heard sometime after I got out of Kirkwall.”

“It’s just ‘Commander,’ now, Hawke,” he says calmly. “I’m no longer a templar.”

Hawke’s eyes, as blue as ice and about as sharp, linger on him, and Ellinor can’t distinguish her thoughts. “Good,” she says simply, after a long while. It’s quiet, air thick with something Ellinor doesn’t quite understand. Even Varric has no jokes to offer, no words to fill the emptiness.

Cullen coughs, _he’s uncomfortable_ , she knows.

“Hawke,” he says suddenly, _trying_ , a softness creeping out from somewhere far within him. “Um. How is Bethany?”

In an instant, the paperweight slips from Hawke’s fingers to the floor, shaking the floorboards when it falls and before Ellinor can even see what’s happened, Hawke has him against the wall, the collar of his shirt in her fist and her elbow digging into his chest. When she answers him, her words—just moment ago lofty and tinkling—are like ice.

“You have some nerve,” she says through gritted teeth, “to ask after her like you were her friend.”

Cullen’s face is red now, and Ellinor suddenly feels like she shouldn’t be there. Like she’s intruding on something.

“Yes,” he says quietly, eyes downcast. “Yes, you’re right, I—”

“I can see you’ve changed your tune since I last saw you,” Hawke interrupts him, “and for that, I congratulate you. Better late than never.”

“I’m s—”

“But I haven’t seen or heard from my sister since the last night I saw you. And don’t you dare waltz around thinking that that isn’t in some way or part your fault, because it is.”

“I know,” he whispers. She remembers this feeling all too well, remembers when it was her in Hawke’s position and Cullen at a loss for words. She remembers. “You’re right,” he says softly, _genuinely_.

“I know I’m right,” she spits, finally releasing him, and he frantically adjusts his collar as she makes for the door. “Varric,” she mutters, cocking her head toward the door. “I’m sure we’ll meet again soon. But I think that’s enough catching up for today.” Almost as an afterthought, she nods once to her before stepping outside. “Ellinor,” she says quietly, and she’s gone.

When she turns around again, Cullen stands, slumped over, his head in his hands and his fingers tugging into his hair. “Well,” she starts slowly. “It could’ve gone worse—”

“—better,” Cullen mutters, finishing her sentence, finally letting go of his hair and looking up at her. “It could’ve gone better.”

She bites her lip. “I didn’t know that’s why she wanted to see you,” she tells him. “Only that she commented first on how you didn’t come to see her arrive, and then again wondering where you were at brunch, so I said I could take her to see you, but I didn’t think—”

“I’m not blaming you,” he says quietly, cutting her off, and he shakes his head slowly, repeatedly. “For anything, Ellinor. It’s—this is my fault. She’s right. Whatever she said, I deserve. I’m not sure...truly, I don’t know where her sister is, but I—I _should_ , and I _don’t_ , and I—”

“Cullen.”

“She’s right.”

She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath before crossing the room to him. _He looks so tired_ she thinks first, and then _he should’ve stayed last night_. But it’s not important now. She wraps her arms around him slowly, coaxing him down to sit with her against his desk, to let her hold him. “So she’s right,” she says quietly.

“What?”

“So she’s right,” she repeats. “Maybe it is, in part, your fault. But...Cullen, you’re doing what you can to make amends. Look at you. You’ve completely integrated our forces to have hybrid mage-soldier units. The mages _trust_ you. You’re as much their leader as you are the rest of the army’s. And—what you’ve done with Avery, and Bridget.” When he turns his head, she pulls him back, cupping his jaw with her hand. “Hawke doesn’t know. I don’t blame her. She doesn’t know what you do. What you’ve done. Who you are. But—”

“Ellinor…”

“But _you_ know,” she insists. “You know what you’re doing now. I wasn’t there, in Kirkwall. I don’t know everything that happened. I didn’t know everything when I first met you. But I know who you are _now_ , and...that’s what matters, okay? You’re doing what you can.”

“You don’t know her.”

“I know _you_ ,” she insists, shaking her head, pulling him down to her lips for a kiss. “I mean it,” she whispers. “Give her time. Let her see.”

* * *

It’s near dark when she slips out of Cullen’s office and back to the main keep. If Hawke plans to make good on her promised diamondback game, she hasn’t left yet. In fact, Ellinor notices as she climbs the staircase from the courtyard to the great hall, Hawke and Varric seem to be the only ones who’ve yet to depart for the Herald’s Rest at all. And when she nears the top of the stairs, hearing the bickering back-and-forth of conversation, she slows her pace. Pauses.

“You said,” Varric declares from inside the hall, “and I quote, ‘Fenris isn’t with me.’ Not ‘Fenris doesn’t have a fucking clue where I’ve gallivanted off to.’”

“Gallivant’?” Hawke snorts. “That’s lofty, even for you.”

“Hawke—”

“You know, I’d apologize for not including every detail about my travels and who is or is not included in them at every given moment but—oh! I’m not sorry!”

She shifts her weight from foot to foot, a part of her wanting to pass through, another part too uncomfortable to interrupt.

“I don’t doubt it,” Varric replies, patient if unamused. “That doesn’t answer my question. Where’d you leave Broody behind?”

She pauses. “Highever, maybe. Amaranthine. Fuck if I know, I’m not _from_ the coast, Varric. I don’t know the northern shores. We were up there somewhere when—”

“—when you gave him the split?”

“That makes it sound a bit rash—”

“—‘rash’ is your middle name—”

“—but yeah,” she snaps. “That’s when I left.”

“And you just...casually didn’t tell him?” Varric presses. “I mean...shit Hawke. Kind of reminds me of the time—”

“Don’t even—”

“All I’ll say is that,” Varric continues, “you’re acting like it was your turn to leave. Is that it?”

The air is so heavy with tension that Ellinor considers, for a moment, returning to Cullen’s quarters and spending the night there instead. And yet she can’t bring herself to move.

“I don’t want him involved in this,” she hisses. “Okay? It’s not his problem. It’s mine. And now it’s yours, too, since you had to be heroic and cover for me even though you should’ve left Kirkwall yourself as soon as the rest of us did but you just _had_ to stay behind and save my ass and get all caught up in—”

“Next time, you can just thank me,” Varric chuckles, stiff, humorless. “Save yourself the words. You know, you haven’t changed a bit, Hawke.”

“ _You_ have, though,” she mutters. “You’re not as fun.”

“Fun? Well. Guess I can’t seem to find the thrill in trying to kill ancient Tevinter magister before it kills us.”

“Oh?” she counters. “It was pretty thrilling the first time around.”

“We failed the first time around, Hawke.”

It’s quiet for a moment.

“I know,” she says, sober and even toned for the first time since her arrival, at least as far as Ellinor has heard. “I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am infinitely excited to share a piece i commissioned from my amazing friend [ellie](https://cullenvhenan.tumblr.com/)! it's [the scene from halamshiral](https://bitchesofostwick.tumblr.com/post/186337148708/youre-softer-im-sorry-youre)!! it's amazing and i love it and it made my entire week so you should all check it out if you have time :)


	34. Rough Roads

When Hawke enters the war room, she does so not as a visitor among a council of war leaders—not cautiously. No. She strides in from the hall late, for one—they’re to leave just after the council and it’s far past the end of breakfast when they were scheduled to convene and Ellinor and the rest of her council have been waiting for nearly twenty minutes before her arrival—and she strides in bored, and unimpressed, and as though they _should_ be waiting on her. As if she’s here to learn from the Inquisition and not the other way around.

“Ellinor,” she says casually, nodding in greeting as she pushes the heavy door closed behind her with the heel of her boot.

The others look on expectantly.

“Champion,” Cassandra prompts testily, and Hawke raises her ice-blue eyes half in humor, half in annoyance.

“Yes, good morning, _Seeker_ ,” she replies. “And to you, Spymaster. Knight-Captain. Lovely Josephine.” She winks at the ambassador, who blushes in turn.

“Good morning,” she squeaks, but everyone else remains silent, and Hawke glances about expectantly.

“Well?” she asks. “You all wanted to meet for _something_ , didn’t you?”

Cassandra scowls.

“Yes,” Ellinor speaks up. “There isn’t much left to do before our departure, but we do generally meet before missions to discuss any plans or loose ends.” She nods to Cullen, who averts his eyes, as he has since Hawke’s arrival. “Commander,” she says, caught off-guard from his behavior. _He doesn’t want Hawke to know_ , of course, they’d agreed to privacy but she’s unaccustomed to his show of distance. “If you will.”

He nods, clearing his throat. “The Inquisitor has already organized a small group of her own to travel with both of you to Crestwood,” he begins, smoothing the map over western Ferelden.

“Varric—”

“—is among that group,” he continues tersely. He’s not one to overlook interruption, Ellinor knows, but Hawke brings him to another degree of unease and impatience. He sighs, straightening and crossing his arms.

“Cassandra will also be accompanying us,” Ellinor says calmly, sending Cullen a knowing glance, _it’s fine, calm down_. “As will another of my friends, Dorian. Otherwise, we’ll keep our party small. Cullen already has some soldiers stationed in the area and along the way. They’ve been told we’re coming, but Leliana’s scouts will send word once we’re nearing the area. We’re to reach your contact, Ser Stroud, with as little distraction or divergence possible.”

The red paint streaked across Hawke’s nose twitches a bit, detracting only a second from her smug smile. “I’d like to be in and out of that shithole just as fast as you would, Ellinor,” she drawls. “But Crestwood’s not exactly a stroll in the park. And Stroud’s not exactly easy to find.”

“You said you’d visited him already,” Cullen points out.

“And I didn’t lie,” she sighs, bored. “But he’s on the move, constantly. It’s not easy when you’re wanted by anyone you used to consider an ally. I would know, even if you wouldn’t understand it, Cullen.”

He scowls; _she’s getting to him._

“Very well,” Cullen says coldly. “We will expect reports from you both,” he nods toward Cassandra and Ellinor, “once you’ve made first camp in Crestwood. Further communication should be provided at your discretion.”

“Ravens will be available at each Inquisition camp,” Leliana points out. “But not otherwise. We will be in contact if we don’t hear from you in a reasonable amount of time.”

Hawke snorts. “Are you her advisors or her nannies?”

“This mission is of particular importance to the Inquisition, Hawke,” Ellinor says steadily, no expressions betraying her even tone. “Close contact is essential when we’re not sure what we’re going into. Surely you understand that, or you would not have come to us in the first place.”

The glint in her eyes is unreadable when she raises a dark arched brow in response. “Touche, Ellinor,” she says simply, and Ellinor nods in return.

“Then I believe we’re ready to leave,” she declares, clasping her hands. She’s dressed for travel already—her usual riding leathers, this time with a hooded jacket, after Hawke’s detailed accounts of Crestwood’s abysmal weather. Her blades are sharpened, two at her hips, Avery’s dagger in her boot. “Dennet has the horses prepared already. Hawke, if you could tell Varric we’re ready, and Cassandra—”

“I will go and find Dorian.”

“Thank you,” she says. She turns to hug Josephine quickly, give Leliana a nod farewell.

_And Cullen_ , she thinks, but he’s too fast for her.

“Lady Trevelyan, a word, please.”

Hawke stares; Leliana is as usual expressionless—bored, even. Only Cassandra and Josephine raise inquiring eyebrows, leaving Ellinor to blush as they retreat from the war room, until it’s only her and Cullen. His hard expression softens nearly as soon as the door closes, and she smiles at him questioningly.

“‘Lady Trevelyan’?” she echoes, humored, when she’s certain the others are out of earshot. “I haven’t heard that one in a while.”

He turns around abruptly, and the slight frown along his lips tells her he’s less amused. “I’ve come to terms long ago with the idea that Aurelia Hawke and I aren’t to get on very well,” he says soberly.

“But I certainly don’t want the same for you. I only hope I haven’t shown a close enough companionship with you to warrant any hostility on her—”

“Cullen,” she interrupts him, shaking her head, exasperated. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“Ellinor—”

“Fine,” she concedes, wishing he might stop pacing around the room, “not ridiculous. But I don’t want you to worry on my part. I’m not afraid of Hawke.”

He closes his eyes, exhales, finally comes to a stop beside her. “I’ll always worry about you,” he says quietly, and she reaches out for his hands. “Whether it’s Hawke, or...or anything.”

She wants to say _don’t_ but her heart warns against it. _He cares_ , she reminds herself, and _you worry about him, too_ and simply _let him_.

“I’ll be careful,” she reassures him instead, pulling him in.

“Promise?” he murmurs, dipping down to kiss her forehead, and her heart flutters at the chaste show of affection.

“I promise.”

He kisses her cheekbones now, one after the other. “You’ve packed everything, then?” he asks, and she nods, kissing his nose when he gives her a chance. She hopes for a blush when she does, or even a shy laugh. She gets neither.

“Please tell me this isn’t the only armor you’re bringing.” He rubs his thumbs over the supple leather, and she can feel the frown in his lips when she stands on her toes to kiss him again.

“I’ve packed more,” she insists, distracting him with another kiss.

“Good,” he mumbles into her mouth, “because the leather you wear will do nothing against—”

She pulls away from him, wanting to laugh when he scowls in protest but instead she only raises her eyebrows. “Are you my advisor or my nanny?” she teases, and it takes him a moment to see that she’s joking.

“Neither,” he replies, unamused. “Right now, I’m somebody who loves you. And I’d like you to be safe when you go, please.”

“I _will_ be safe,” she promises again.

“I hope so.”

“And I’ll bring everyone back in one piece,” she says, giving him one last parting kiss before resting back on her heels.

“That would be best, yes.”

“And when I come back,” she continues, making for the door, “I’d like to spend more time with you, Commander.”

He sighs, his expression halfway between humor and longing at her words. “I should like that, Lady Trevelyan.”

* * *

_Ellinor,_

_I see now that you went specifically against my suggestion and left your suit of mail in my office. I assure you, the armor is not nearly as cumbersome as you seem to think, nor is the leather and cloth you left in as protective as you boast. I find this choice neither clever nor amusing. Even Hawke wears scaled obsidian—a material you might also find suited to your tastes, if you were ever to read the geology reports I send you a little more thoroughly._

_I do not wish to write you a lecture, but I meant it when I said I_ do _worry about you when you’re not at Skyhold. Very much so, and I have for quite some time now. Please understand that._

_Yours,_

_C_

* * *

Their journey, at least at first, consists mainly of Hawke and Varric leading the party, with Hawke chattering incessantly about her travels and asking about Kirkwall friends who Varric still appears to be in contact with. Ellinor catches only bits of conversation at a time from where she rides behind them— _Aveline’s the same, maybe better now that she and Donnic aren’t practically holding the city together on their own_ and _but have you heard from Bela at all?_ and _thank the Maker Merrill’s all right_ —but even if she’d wanted to eavesdrop—she doesn’t—it’s hardly comprehensible to her. All people she never knew from a place she hadn’t been in a time that seems distant and surreal to her. She wonders, as she rides, how many of them Cullen knows. _Knew_.

_Probably many._

Once—only once—Cassandra pulls her mount up alongside Ellinor’s. She’s chosen a Dalish mount for this trip, hardy and surefooted along their descent from the Frostbacks, but it pales in size comparison to Cassandra’s, and suddenly she feels the need to sit straighter in her saddle, compensate for her smaller stature as the move eastward.

“So,” the Seeker begins, face sober but curious, and Ellinor raises her eyebrows intently. “You and Cullen—”

“ _Cassandra!_ ” she hisses, and Cassandra wrinkles her nose.

“I only wished to see how things between you—”

“As far as everyone _else_ knows—” she says through gritted teeth, gesturing ahead of them where Hawke and Varric continue to gossip about Kirkwall “—there is nothing between myself and Cullen. And he and I would like to keep it that way. Which I hope you’ll respect, considering your friendship with him.”

Cassandra frowns.

“And with me,” Ellinor adds after a moment, and the Seeker’s eyes soften, if only a little.

“Well,” she concedes, scoffing, “I _was_ only asking as a friend. But you are even more stubborn about it than he is.”

Ellinor maintains her glower until Cassandra’s fallen back behind her, but a part of her wants to smile at the thought of Cullen inevitably snapping at Cassandra, no doubt grumbling something about _personal privacy_ when he did.

“—told you she wouldn’t want to talk about it,” chuckles Dorian behind her.

“Well,” mutters Cassandra.

“They’re both insufferable when it comes to details about their private lives, Cassandra,” he snorts, and she feels a blush creeping up her neck. “Honestly, it serves you right for being so nosy.”

“I was not being _nosy_ , Dorian!” she snaps.

“What do you want to know, anyway?”

Ellinor can hear her snort in disgust. “I only...I only wish to make sure they are both happy, that’s all.”

“Of course you do,” Dorian says dryly.

They’re only just out of the mountainside when they finally stop to make camp. It’s the first day of their trip, though Ellinor’s certain they have no less than three more before even reaching the outskirts of Crestwood. Cassandra doesn’t ask about her and Cullen again, though whether it’s thanks to her own admonishment or Dorian’s teasing, Ellinor is unsure. Rather, the camp is fairly quiet as they set up their own tents, with only a few muttered jokes between Hawke and Varric and the crackling of Dorian’s quickly conjured fire sounding amongst them. There’s no need to hunt yet—not on the first night when they have plenty of food from the Skyhold kitchens stored in their packs—but Cassandra excuses herself to go for a brief excursion anyway, a habit she’s gotten into when travelling with Sera. But Ellinor supposes Hawke is a similar enough annoyance to her.

“—so fucking _cold_ out here,” Hawke mutters, teeth chattering as she plops into a sitting position much closer to the than Ellinor would think advisable.

“Aren’t you _from_ here?” Varric laughs, for once buttoning his jacket above mid-chest level. “I mean, aren’t you used to this?”

Hawke feigns insult. “Ferelden’s huge, Varric,” she scoffs. “I’m not from freeze-your-tits-off Ferelden, I’m from we’re-so-poor-we-can-barely-afford-seeds-for-our-dry-ass-dirt Ferelden.”

“Right, my apologies. Careless of me to confuse the two.”

“And don’t forget you-spit-in-the-ocean-and-the-ocean-spits-back Ferelden, or here-there-be-witches Ferelden, or this-is-where-trees-talk Ferel—”

“I think we understand the point,” Dorian sighs, disappearing into his tent with a dramatic _hmph_ , and Hawke raises her eyebrows in mock surprise.

“All right,” she mutters. “We can’t all be from Maker-forsaken-slavery-land.”

“It’s true, and I permit you to say it!” Dorian calls from his tent, and Hawke smiles smugly.

“And what about you, Ellinor?” she asks, holding her gloved hands in front of the fire, and Ellinor looks up quickly. “Where are you from? The Marches, right?”

“Yes,” she says, nodding. She sits with them along the fire, peeling her gloves off one at a time. “My family’s from Ostwick, although only my parents still live there.”

“Oh?” Hawke asks, pulling her knives from their sheathes and taking a small whetstone from her pack.

Ellinor’s unsure if she’s genuinely interested. _But it’s still early_ and she has little else to do before it’s time for bed. “I’m here now, of course,” she explains, tearing off a bit of bread from the loaf she’d packed. “One of my sisters lives in Perivantium now. I have no idea where another is. And the third is living in Val Royeaux, along with my twin brother.”

Hawke drops her whetstone. “You’re a _twin_?” she asks, eyes brightening, genuinely, for perhaps the first time since Ellinor’s met her. “My siblings are—I mean, Bethany is a twin.” Just as quickly as a smile had grown on her face, it fades, and her eyes darken. “Our brother, Carver…he died while we were escaping Ferelden.”

Her lips part in surprise. “I’m so sor–”

“Don’t be sorry,” Hawke dismisses her quickly. It’s sharp, but there’s no anger behind her words. _Reservation, maybe._ “Is your twin…I mean, do you still see each other?”

She nods, chewing, swallowing her bread, rolling with Hawke’s pace even after her hasty words. “Yes,” she starts slowly, “although it’s really only recent that we’ve been together again. We were separated when we were twelve. He was taken to the Circle.”

Immediately, Hawke’s face turns stony. Cold. “I know the feeling,” she says, voice icy. “The templars came for Bethany while we were in Kirkwall.” She laughs bitterly, shaking her head. “In fact, your very own commander was among the party who came to take her from me.”

“Yes,” Ellinor says quietly. “Yes, I know.”

“Did Varric tell you that?”

“I did not,” Varric confirms before Ellinor has a chance to say so herself. He’s been disassembling, cleaning, and reassembling Bianca for the entirely of the conversation—both invested in and outside of their words, both loyal to Hawke and a part of the Inquisition.

She shakes her head. “Cullen told me,” she clarifies, tone cautious, eyes on alert.

Hawke narrows her eyes. “I’m sure he’s very proud.”

“He’s not proud of his past at all,” Ellinor says through gritted teeth. “And if you’d give him an opportunity to speak about it, I’m sure he would tell you so himself.”

Hawke throws her head back and laughs at that. “He could have said something just the other day,” she snickers.

“You didn’t give him a chance!” Ellinor insists.

Hawke opens her mouth to reply, but the sounds of leaves and twigs crunching behind them silence her. In seconds, Cassandra emerges from the trees, sword sheathed and nothing to show for her trip. She can see in her expression that she’s overheard some of their conversation; she’s not cold-faced and stoic as usual but seethed, aggravated.

“Hawke,” she snaps.

“Right hand,” Hawke replies pleasantly, twirling her blade in the palm of her hand. “How was the hunt?”

But Cassandra ignores her. “What,” she growls, “are you _doing_?”

“Oh, just discussing just how wonderful your Inquisition’s commander is at tearing apart families, ruining lives, seizing and confining mages,” Hawke lists, counting each item off on her fingers. “And the like.”

The Seeker only glares, dark eyes flitting back to Ellinor only once before apparently making to burn a hole into Hawke.

_Don’t_ , Ellinor thinks, pleads silently with her. _It’s not the time yet_ and _it’s a conversation to save for Hawke and Cullen alone_ and most of all words can’t _undo_ Cullen’s past, and bringing Avery back to Ellinor doesn’t _undo_ taking Bethany from Hawke, and Cassandra is his friend but she cannot fix this for him, and Ellinor _loves_ him but _I can’t fight his battles in his place._

_Don’t._

The Seeker speaks finally, words like ice. “You do not know him as he is. If Ellinor will not speak for him,” she says, fiery eyes lingering on Ellinor in anger, in blame, “then I have no problem doing so.” She doesn’t leave Hawke time or room to reply; no sooner have the words left her mouth than she turns on the heels of her booth, disappears into her tent without another word.

_She wanted me to defend him_ , she knows, but _I’ve been in Hawke’s place_. She’s not a stranger to Cullen’s past, though there’s still more to it that she’s yet to understand. But she knows. She understands. She kicks the toe of her boot in the dirt a bit, silent, pensive, and Hawke cracks her shoulders, seemingly unperturbed.

“Peachy,” she mutters, glancing instantly to Varric when she does.

He doesn’t bite.

“Already told you, Hawke,” he says tiredly. “Not the same Curly he used to be.”

* * *

_Cullen,_

_Mail_ is _cumbersome. If you can find me a suit of metal as flexible and lightweight as my leathers and cloth, I’ll wear it, but until then, I know what works best for me. And besides, Harritt sharpened my knives before I left._

_I know you worry, but trust me, please. I’ll be just fine._

_Love,_

_E_

* * *

_Lin,_

_A sufficient offense is not a substitute for a mediocre defense._

_Love,_

_C_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i recently commissioned a lovely friend of mine, [bluekaddis](https://bluekaddis.tumblr.com/) on tumblr, for a piece featuring [ellinor and cullen in chapter 30 when he kisses her in his office](https://bitchesofostwick.tumblr.com/post/186452392748/i-have-so-little-to-offer-you-myself-but-if-you)! :') it's sooooo beautiful and captures the moment perfectly!


	35. Obstacles

She’s been gone eight days when the headaches start.

They’re not bad—not nearly as piercing or as persistent as they have been many times previously—and at least it’s _only_ headaches. No nightmares or nausea or dizziness to speak of, at least not yet. But they’re there. Ever present, an echo of a taunt showing itself just as he begins to miss her— _truly_ miss her, worrying day and night for her safety and searching every mail delivery for letters or reports or notes on her whereabouts.

 _Of course they’re back,_ he thinks, resolving immediately to brew the tea she’d left for him with every meal, bringing cups along with him to morning drills and meetings and even, perhaps for the best, his nightly war council with Leliana and Josephine. Without Ellinor and Cassandra, they convene mostly to recap any reports they’d received by raven that day and update one another on any new findings or progressions. Most days, there’s little to report. Often they adjourn little more than ten minutes after starting.

Today, he has greater concerns to express. He thumbs through correspondence from Captain Rollins and Sergeant Dell numbly as Josephine details the inventory of supplies they’re to send out to Crestwood the following day.

“There is something on your mind, Cullen,” Leliana observes when Josephine has finished.

He nods. “Yes,” he says quietly, placing the letters atop the map before them. “Yes, well...I’ve yet to bring it up to Ellinor, but...we cannot continue to ignore the growing numbers of red templars in Orlais. Obviously the Wardens may prove a more pressing matter, but to dismiss a threat that’s already grown farther out of our control than we should ever have allowed is just—”

“Cullen,” Leliana interrupts calmly. “We cannot allocate our forces everywhere at once.”

He can almost _hear_ the leather of his own gloves tighten when he clenches his fists, and even Josephine looks away from them both, holding her notes ever closer to her nose and studying them carefully.

“Leliana,” he says carefully, can hardly believe they might raise tension in the war room without Ellinor’s help, “as commander of the Inquisition’s armies, I’m well aware of our numbers and how we can or cannot allocate them.”

The spymaster only nods coolly. “And as _Cullen_ —not Commander Cullen, but just Cullen—you are emotionally biased in this matter. None of us are doubting the severity of the red templar threat. But we must focus on the matter at hand, and given what Cassandra and Ellinor have reported to us so far, what Hawke told us may very well be true. And if it is, dealing with the Warden’s corruption will be of utmost priority. Surely you recognize this.”

“Of _course_ I recognize that, Leliana,” he says, gritting his teeth. The room feels hot, his armor heavy as he searches for words. He grimaces. “But important as the Warden threat may be, we can’t possibly know how bad the…” He trails off, running a hand forcefully through his hair before pushing his fist into the table, closing his eyes. “I only...of course I’m biased,” he says, exasperated. “I know what red lyrium can do. I’ve seen it. I’ve _lived_ it. I can’t…”

“We will not ignore this matter.”

When he looks up again, Josephine no longer averts her eyes. Instead, she is determined. Confident. Carefully, she places her notes on the table before them, peers over the map with thoughtfulness and care. “Where are the main forces of red templars? That we know of so far, that is.”

He furrows his brow, licks his lips. “Well.” He traces his gloved fingers over the Emerald Graves, and east to the Emprise du Lion. “There’s reason to believe the red templar power is spreading west from the Emprise. Two of my officers already have reported that their source of lyrium may very well be a location in that area. One has pointed to Sahrnia, but I’ve instructed all forces to bide their time and avoid unnecessary engagement until we know exactly what we’re up against. Units in the Emerald Graves have already reported severe casualties at the hands of the red templar forces, and I’ve sent what aide I can spare now, but with the Warden problem arising, I can’t send them the reinforcements they _need_. Not until we have a better understanding of their strength.”

Leliana nods slowly, and Josephine frowns. “If the matter of the Wardens is as we expect,” the ambassador begins carefully, “then we will need time to make preparations before a full...investigation. That is to say, there may be time for a short investigation as we plan.”

 _An assault_ , he thinks, _not an investigation. A full assault on their forces, a test the Inquisition armies have yet to face._

She places her fingers atop the table. “Perhaps Ellinor could survey Sahrnia when she returns from Crestwood.”

“No.”

The word leaves his mouth just as soon as it leaves Leliana’s, and he looks to the spymaster in surprise.

“After you,” she says evenly.

He frowns. “I have brief scouting reports from my own soldiers in the area. The lands are infested with red lyrium. I can’t...we shouldn’t…” He takes a deep breath, shaky, wavering. “It’s _sickening_ , the way it affects you. I won’t have her go.”

“But you’ll have someone else go,” Leliana presses, blue eyes not leaving him for a moment.

 _Yes_ , he wants to snap, but the implications, the injustice of the idea stop him. _She’s right_ , he thinks, _I am biased_ but the thought of sending Ellinor anywhere harm can befall her makes him sick to his stomach and even Crestwood is nearly too much, even watching her leave Skyhold with Aurelia Hawke had brought aches to his heart and long, sleepless night spent worrying about her.

“It’s no matter,” the spymaster continues. “I was going to suggest we send a couple of my own agents to take a look. They will work swiftly and with discretion to learn more about the situation and report back. We could determine our course of action from there, if we’re all in agreement.”

Cullen sighs, rubs his fingers over the bridge of his nose. _Then Ellinor won’t have to go_ , he thinks, but he shakes his head. “It’s still very unsafe. My own soldiers have met nothing but trouble in the Emprise.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing Harding can’t handle.”

She crosses her arms over her chainmail, _the matter is settled_. A quick nod from Josephine signals the ambassador’s agreement, and Cullen closes his eyes. “Very well,” he says quietly.

“Then I believe that is all we have for today,” Josephine concludes, extinguishing the candle on her writing board. She stacks her notes neatly, makes note of the time in glancing out the window into the starry expanse outside the keep. “Goodnight, Leliana. Cullen.”

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Josie.”

But the spymaster does not follow her into the hall. She stands still, stone-like as she watches him return the map markers to their appropriate places across Orlais and Ferelden, run his hands through his hair again. _She’s waiting_ , he knows, offered him the first move like a game of chess and he sighs, looks up, grips the pommel of his sword, shakes his head in spite of himself.

“Is there something else?” he asks finally.

“That’s the tea Ellinor makes for you,” she says with a knowing nod toward the pot and teacup he’d left beside his reports. “I’m glad you’re making use of it.”

 _She’s noticed_ , he thinks, and then _of course she has._

“You’re never one to beat around the bush,” he says quietly.

“Never,” she replies with a smile. “I am only glad that you are taking care of yourself and not letting your duties get in the way of your health.”

He stares at her. “You’re starting to sound more and more like Cassandra,” he mutters.

“You might say we are two hands of the same body, no?” she asks, a teasing smile playing at her lips, and even he can’t scowl at her attempt to joke. “I was asked to keep an eye on your well-being. As though I don’t already.”

“Cassandra asked you?”

“And Ellinor,” she replies.

He nods, _of course_. “I keep them both updated in my correspondence to them. They have no cause for concern.”

She raises a single contrary eyebrow. “It says a lot that they ask for an outside opinion rather than have full faith in your personal reports, does it not?” she asks him, and he frowns. “Do not keep such matters private, Cullen. Not from those who care about you.” She moves soundlessly to the door, nodding to him only once before disappearing half through.

“Goodnight,” she finishes.

* * *

_Cullen,_

_We’ve made good progress in Crestwood so far. Hawke was right about this place though. It makes me uneasy. The entire village has been hiding secrets since the Blight—you’ll see I’ve detailed everything in my report, but it makes me sick. To kill so many innocent people for only the possibility of saving a few. Yes, it might have been the mayor’s fault and idea at the time, but others were complicit. It’s an atrocity and more than that, it’s a tragedy. We won’t make the same mistakes in the Inquisition. Please pass along my report to Leliana—I’m sure she’ll want to be in touch with King Alistair about this._

_The good news—or I suppose, the better news—is that we’ve located Stroud. We haven’t met with him, exactly, but we know where he is and we expect to make it to his camp in the morning. We’ve only a minor obstacle in the way, but it’s nothing we can’t take care of quickly. And after that, homeward bound._

_Truly, Cullen, I’ve missed you. I look forward to seeing you soon and hopefully spending more time with you than I did following Hawke’s arrival. Please, take care of yourself in the meantime. I love you._

_Yours,_

_E_

* * *

They hear it, as it often happens, before they see it.

The ground-shaking screech comes with surprise but not, to Ellinor’s heart-sinking disappointment, unfamiliarity as the party approaches the eastern outskirts of Crestwood.

 _No_ , is her immediate reaction, _we’ve traveled for days getting here_ and _we’ve drained an entire fucking town_ and _we’ve uncovered decades-old secrets_ all to reach Warden Stroud and now, now, a _dragon_ stands in their way.

_No._

Cassandra reacts with sense, at least, tugging her down among an outcrop of boulders alongside the hills they’d traveled all morning just to reach Stroud. The others follow suit, taking cover amongst the rocks.

“Is that—” Varric starts, but Ellinor presses her index finger to her lips, rises slowly to turn and take a closer look.

_No._

It’s bigger than the last dragon they’d faced—at least she thinks it is, they all tower over buildings, let alone people—and worse, it’s _settled_. Surrounded by bones, animal corpses and likely some human as well, and the longer she looks the more she recognizes the acrid smell, the sickening mix of sulfur and rotting flesh alike. It’s _huge_ , and it’s _vicious,_ and it has _no intent of moving_ , and _worst of all, it’s in our way._

_No._

She slides back against the rock, glaring at Hawke—as if it’s her fault—and gesturing wildly outward.

“We have to deal with that?” she demands.

Hawke inches upward, peeks at the dragon, and sinks back down. She nods.

“You’re absolutely sure that this is the right way to Stroud’s camp?”

“Yup.”

“And there definitely isn’t any other way to get there from here?”

“Nope.”

She closes her eyes for a moment and takes a deep breath. “Great,” she mutters, tugging at the soft leather jacket she wears. _If this dragon doesn’t kill me, I’ll certainly die before I have to hear Cullen say ‘I told you so.’_ With one last grimace, she exhales, long, slow, opens her eyes.

“Cassandra, I’ll need you to lead in as normal. Dorian—”

“Out behind it,” he interrupts her in a bored tone, “focusing on necromancy and not on fire. Yes.”

She nods. “Varric…” she starts. She’d have preferred Sera, truth be told. _Sera loves dragons._ “Varric, keep close to Dorian, but not too close. Behind it, but opposite sides, if that makes sense.”

“Got it.”

“And Hawke—”

“Oh, I’ll be right here, making sure everyone pulls their weight and no one slacks off.”

Ellinor frowns. Even Varric shoots her an unimpressed look.

“Kidding,” she huffs, raising her hands defensively. “Where do you want me, Ellinor?”

She crosses her arms. “We’ll go in behind Cassandra, taking opposite sides. The hind legs will be most vulnerable, at least if Cassandra can distract it—”

“I can,” the Seeker confirms.

“—so we’ll take it from there to begin with.” She takes another deep breath. “Are we all clear?”

Cassandra and Dorian nod. Hawke shrugs, _because it’s Hawke_ , Ellinor thinks, frowning.

“Not my first dragon.”

Ellinor gapes at her. “It’s not—wait, really? Cullen never said...I mean,” she corrects herself, clearing her throat. “I didn’t know there were any dragons in Kirkwall.”

She snorts. “There were. And they wouldn’t have been on Knight-Captain Curly’s radar. You know, since he was preoccupied with sniffing out nonexistent threats to the city rather than dealing with real—”

“That is _enough_ ,” Cassandra growls. “We have a more pressing matter at hand, in case either of you have forgotten.”

She glances back at Cassandra, eyes hardened. _But she’s right_. They’re only wasting time just sitting among the rocks, and they can only stay hidden for so long before the dragon discovers them, anyway.

“All right,” she says, turning to the group and unsheathing her daggers. “Ready?”

Hawke pulls her blades out in turn, Cassandra grips her sheild in her hand.

“Ready,” Varric mutters, and Dorian twists his staff idly.

“Go.”

They’re off—and though Hawke and Varric hadn’t been along for the last dragon they’d faced... _or the one before that_ , Ellinor thinks as she leaps lithely into position after Cassandra—they move together swiftly, efficiently. Cassandra take’s the dragon head-on, _she’s fearless as always_ , swinging her sword shielding against the beasts’ flames and jaw alike. She can’t see Dorian and Varric from where she fights, rolling into the heat of the battle beneath the dragon’s hind legs but _if I can’t see them, they’re where they need to be_ and she doesn’t bother looking for Hawke either as she slashes, dodges, turns, stabs. She doesn’t have to look. She can _hear_ her, all taunts and giggles and jokes and _take that!_ and _ha!_ and she’s not sure if it’s the adrenaline or Hawke’s enthusiasm but she can’t help but smile as they work, battling together in a rhythm unlike hers and Sera’s, or hers and Cassandra’s.

“The dragon is weakening,” Cassandra yells out somewhere amongst the dust and the melee. “Watch the arms, it’s getting more aggressive!”

 _Watch the arms_ , she notes, looking for Hawke among the action but _she can handle herself_ , she thinks, focuses on dodging, on slashing, _and if I can just get a bit closer to—_

“Agh!” she cries out, crumbling to her knees almost instantly as a trio of cuts open from the back of her jacket and her lower back stings with a searing pain.

“Ellinor!” Cassandra shouts.

 _Watch the arms_ , she thinks again, cursing herself and knowing exactly what had hit her.

“Fuck,” she whispers, and it’s as though the dragon flashes in moving images before her eyes as her heartbeat pounds in her throat and in her ears, _one, two, three, four,_ and she can’t feel her feet and the dragon snaps it’s yellow teeth, darkened eyes on her and her alone and she’s certain something absolutely horrible will happen to her now and all she can think is _Cullen asked me to wear better armor_ but as soon as she closes her eyes, as soon as she braces herself for razor-sharp teeth or piercing claws or worse, _fire_ , she’s shoved aside, skidding into the grass and sent coughing the air back into her lungs.

“Can’t afford to lose you yet, Ellinor!” Hawke hollers at her over the screaming roar of the dragon.

It’s all she can do to scramble up from the ground, nearly doubling over in pain, to find Hawke staring down the dragon, a knife in one hand and a grin on her face.

“Fuck,” Ellinor mutters again, _she’s lost a blade._

“On your left, Hawke!” Varric shouts, firing Bianca straight for the dragon’s head. It hardly deals the damage their daggers can, but it’s a distraction and it provides Hawke with enough time to move back behind Cassandra.

 _Just_ enough time.

In seconds, the dragon is on both of again, and Varric fires bolt after bolt as Dorian sends spells of every color into the fight and Hawke wipes her face with the back of her hand, smearing her usual red painted stripe over her like blood. “Toss me a knife!” she hollers, lingering behind Cassandra, eyes never leaving the dragon’s.

Ellinor looks at her in disbelief, meeting her ice-blue eyes, pleading, frantic.

“Ellinor! Knife!”

“Can you catch it?”

Hawke cringes. “Knife now! Questions later!”

She hesitates for only a moment more before holding her breath, gripping the handle of one blade before pulling back, winding up, and throwing it toward Hawke.

She catches it easily.

“ _Yes!_ ” she screams, _laughing_ , and she’s a whirlwind of silverite and bloodstone and obsidian and a flash of red paint all at once, tumbling and somersaulting out of the way of flames as she stabs and slashes her way through the dragon beside Cassandra.

“You good, Swift?” Varric yells, coming up alongside her, and Ellinor grimaces.

“It’s nothing bad,” she says quickly, limping, watching in near-helplessness as Cassandra and Hawke take on the weakened beast.

It’s not long before it falls before them with a dying shriek and a _thud_ that seems to move the ground beneath them, and she stares in disbelieve, arms behind her back and clutching her wounds but _it’s over_ and Hawke and Cassandra emerge from the dust, tired and unhurt, Dorian not far behind them.

“That was…” Hawke says breathlessly, smile never leaving her face as she looks over the massive body, “that was fucking _crazy_. That was…” She looks around her, from the dragon to Varric to where Ellinor sat, Cassandra and Dorian knelt on either side of her. “Shit,” she mutters. “Ellinor…”

“It’s nothing,” she says, forcing a smile to mirror Hawke’s in spite of the pain searing over her back.

“It’s not _nothing_ ,” tuts Dorian, pushing her to lean forward so he can examine the wound carefully. “Fortunately, it’s more like _nothing I can’t fix_.” He lifts the hem of her shirt carefully, and she winces in pain.

“I thought you were a necromancer, not a healer,” Hawke observes, and behind her, Dorian _hmphs_.

“Assuming I’m singularly talented,” he sighs. “You wound me.”

“I think Swift’s the one who’s wounded here,” Varric steps in, quieting any further argument, for which Ellinor makes note to thank him later. “And I doubt Sparkler’s going to take more than a few minutes patching it up.”

“I’m sure that’s right,” Ellinor says diplomatically, as though she isn’t hunched over with her face to her knees and a mage inspecting her lower back for further injury. “And I’m also sure that your friend Stroud will not be expecting a party of five showing up unannounced at his camp, so Hawke, it might be best for you and Varric to greet him first. We can follow up as soon as…” She gasps when she feels jolt of heat upon her skin. “...as soon as we’re done,” she finishes through gritted teeth.

“Sounds like a plan,” Hawke replies amicably, and she can hear her turn on her boots in the direction of Stroud’s camp.

“Hawke,” she calls out once more, tilting her head up to look back at her, and she turns around, face still smudged in red, cracking a half smile at her from where she stands on the hill.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you,” she tells her. “For sav—”

“Thank _you_ ,” Hawke interrupts her, tossing her own dagger back to her. It lands in the grass just in front of her. “For lending me a blade. Came in handy.” She winks before turning on her heels, heading up the hill with Varric beside her.

“Ugh,” Cassandra says simply when she’s gone.

“‘Ugh’?” Ellinor echoes, wincing again when Dorian applies cooling magic to the wound.

“Cullen will not approve when he hears about this,” the Seeker clarifies. “You, being injured on my watch. After he said…” She deepens her voice. “‘Cassandra, watch out for—’”

“Cullen will _not_ be hearing about this,” Ellinor interrupts just as Dorian finishes his work. She sits up straight, rolls her shoulders, stretches her sides. _Not bad._ “Because I’ve already...shit, I’ve already ruined my jacket.”

“And?” Cassandra prompts.

“And I told him I’d stop wearing leather in the field, okay?” Ellinor snaps. “So neither of you can tell him I got hurt.”

Cassandra narrows her eyes at her.

“Please,” Ellinor adds quickly, and she sighs.

“Right,” Dorian mutters. “Just let him find out on his own when the two of you...eurgh.”

Ellinor closes her eyes, sighing as she pulls herself to her feet. “Please,” she says again. “Just...don’t say anything, okay? I’ll handle it. Besides, I’m sure we’ll have more pressing matters to talk about than ‘Ellinor got her back scraped up by a dragon.’”

Cassandra frowns, looking up toward the hill Hawke and Varric had started up. “I am sure you are right,” she says solemnly.

* * *

_Cullen,_

_We have met with the Warden. If what he says is true, then we have a serious challenge to face in the coming weeks. He has agreed to travel to western Orlais to survey the situation there, and I expect we will hear from him again in due time._

_I am sure Ellinor will detail the same in her reports, but this seems to be exactly what we feared. We cannot take this lightly, and we will need to discuss it further upon our return._

_The Champion travels back with us again. Though she’s made no secret of her feelings toward you on multiple accounts, it does appear that she and Ellinor have forged some semblance of friendship over the course of our travels, and since meeting Stroud, Hawke has eased back on her aggressive remarks toward you. Perhaps there will be another opportunity for the two of you to speak in the future._

_Ellinor continually insists on making a hasty return. I have no doubt of her reasons, nor, I imagine, do you._

_—Cassandra_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> split POV for this one, please forgive me as i regroup from some weird things life has thrown at me in the past week. next update includes a cullen + ellinor reunion, some fluff, and drunk ellinor. get excited.


End file.
